2nd Life
by msyendor
Summary: You died. Maybe. The age is turning on the Last Dragonborn and more than dragons are awakening. Curtis swears an owl slapped him just before he fell off a mid-rise condo job site. And, boom, like Dr. Who he's got a new body and a new direction in life — in Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Thank gods he isn't the Dragonborn. (AU, Non-DB, OC)
1. Chapter 1 Hey, You

_A/N: Well, this started as just another one-shot short story intro of a new character but Curtis insisted better documentation and bigger space was needed for a proper build. Seriously, guy? But he's a fan of "Mythbusters" and states that if you're gonna break stuff like canon lore, use more duct tape than you think is needed._

_A/N: bit of casual swearing._

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, etc. Stories might not be in chronological order.

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Chapter 1: Hey, you — you're finally awake.

What the fuck? Was that an owl that nearly hit him? He bent over, looking for the clipboard he'd dropped when the bird . . . He was certain it was an owl. Not a seagull, he'd easily recognize those noisy water rats on wings. And not one of the few nesting pairs of peregrine falcons that had come back to the city. An owl. Sure sounded like one from the way it hooted just before its wing nearly slapped his face. He straightened then nearly fell over from sudden vertigo.

"Curtis! Man, what's wrong?"

He couldn't answer. The migraine was back. The pain blinding, debilitating. He staggered, tripped over a pile of rebar and went over the side, dead even before hitting the ground ten stories below.

What in— Reflexes kicked in. He kicked, his arms flailed and his head broke surface, gasping for air. His feet hit wood. His arms wrapped around a wooden beam. Fuck! It was cold! Gotta get out of the water before he blacked out, drowned, and died (again?). It was pitch black but the sounds, the sounds were like a wooden ship. A capsized wooden ship and he was in the hold he guessed. But, the annual wooden boat show was on Lake Union and he'd been on a new construction of yet another condo/retail building a couple miles away in downtown Seattle on Third Avenue near Pioneer Square.

He climbed onto what felt like a pile of crates and immediately curled over coughing and vomiting water. He forced his gasps into deep, measured breathing, worked his fists and flexing arm muscles to try to pump blood and heat for better control and grip. When he was more certain of his control over his breathing he did rapid rhythmic, forceful exhalations. "Dragon breath" or "breath of fire" from the yoga classes he'd been taking as part of his effort to lower his killer blood pressure and ease depression. Soon his shallow puffs progressed onto deep, lungs full of air.

It worked. He felt warmer and his mind calmed down.

Then more deliberate dragon breathing as new sensory data flooded his awareness.

First of all, he'd lost weight. Like, a lot of weight. In the last couple of years he'd gained over a hundred pounds — job stress, losing important contracts, almost losing his business (thanks, Roj, ya backstabbing, embezzling piece of . . .), losing his kid sister — but the belly under his hand was flat and well-muscled. Shit. All of him was perfectly hard-bodied like some dedicated gym rat.

His face . . . His ears were pointed. _I got elf ears_, he realized. Unfamiliar stubble over his lip and along his jawline. Bone structure all wrong, the brow ridges were too steep and slanted. Forehead sloped back. Cheekbones sharp and high. Chin longer and a touch sharper. Hair was straight and shoulder length.

"What the holy fuck?" That voice. A three-pack-a-day smoker's voice. Wrong pitch. Wrong tone.

His clothes. He wasn't wearing his jeans, wrong type of boots, gone was his precious work vest and its multitudes of pockets with all his beloved gadgets and tools. No hardhat. Just leather boots, leather pants, leather belt with a sheathed knife, and some sort of rough linen shirt with sleeves to his elbows.

His fingers danced over a sizeable nasty wound on the hairline above his temple. He'd need a few stitches he knew from experience. He'd hit his head in the same spot when he was a teenager trying to do some advanced, fancy-assed shit on a skateboard down some stairs. Damn near killed himself then. Looks like the previous body owner did from this blow. Fell out of bed or something when the ship crashed, cracked his head on something, then drowned while unconscious. He used his belt knife — non-metallic; was that hard plastic? No, feels like bone with a simple leather cord wrapped hilt — to cut strips from the bottom of his shirt. Wadded one strip and use the other to tie the pad over the wound.

"OK. So I'm dead and some fucking joker stuffs me into another body. So what the fuck now? I get a second fucking chance, a second life, like some goddamn, fuck-off production of 'Heaven Can Wait?' Seriously, God?" he roared, frustrated.

"OK, Curtis, my man, you're now a dark elf. Better be. Brother's got no business being a fancy freaky fairy light."

OK, reality checking later. Right now the priority was to get topside before the tides lifted the wreck off of whatever it was stuck on and pulled it to the deep. He felt his way through the blackness until he saw a glimmer of light. He headed for it. A candle lantern on a peg just above the waterline. Now that he could see he looked himself over.

Dark gray flesh. Dark elf. Lessee. Warcraft, Forgotten Realms, Elder Scrolls. Fuck. Hair was black, that left out the silver-haired drow so not Forgotten Realms. Hair color in the light was the brown-black variety, not purple or blue and he wasn't unusually tall so not a night elf from Warcraft. That left Elder Scrolls, but which one? He was familiar only with Morrowind and Skyrim. Vanilla games; no expansion packs or mods. He usually played the straightforward tank type, casual novice level, cathartic hit 'em with a sword and make all your troubles go away.

He saw stairs in the water. Dived. Followed the stairs "up" and came to another pocket of air and there he found another body. Man. Dark-skinned arab/negroid mix type. Vest, shirt, baggy pants, afghanistan-type headwrap. A redguard. The man had died gruesomely. Been smoking a long pipe, had gotten thrown in the crash, the pipe had gone through his throat.

Gamer habit or survival sense took over and he briskly looted the man's body for anything useful, finding a small purse of gold coins, a couple rings, flint and steel, and a nicely carved box full of soggy tobacco. The vest was nice and had a lot of little pockets but was too small. He took it anyway. It was glossy silk with gemstones and gold thread. Worth a few drakes or septims. He looked around. Poked in a few barrels. Any food was saltwater-logged except for the crate of small, wax-coated cheesewheels. In other crates he found an array of iron and steel weapons. He selected a nice pair of steel throwing knives and a steel hand axe. After a moment of hesitation he laid out some swords and axes, closed his eyes and told his body, "Choose!" then opened his eyes and let his hand reach for one. A steel claymore. It felt way too familiar when he hefted it; his body automatically making adjustments to wield the weapon.

Body reflexes and muscle memory. Yeah, he knew that. He wondered if he could still play the guitar or if he'd have to retrain this body to handle a musical instrument, work an anvil, carve wood, and blow glass. Oh, and black belt judo. He hoped the latter wouldn't be too hard. He was too old to train again to take falls. "Falls in armor," a part of him whispered and he swore as he imagined practicing ukemi techniques in armor.

Or, maybe not too old. He didn't know how old this body was and he vaguely remembered that Skyrim dark elves — the dunmer, yeah, 'dark elf' was an insult here — that they lived longer than humans but slightly less than those white Naz-, altmer. About 300 years or so. Longer if you're a wizard that knows the trick for life extension.

The other crate had iron and steel and leather armor parts. None of them had any particular attraction except for the appropriate weapon sheath and holding straps for the claymore. Thankfully, his new body knew how to position and tighten the straps without him having to think about it.

He eventually made it topside. He'd come across a few other bodies floating down there. Mostly male, mostly imperial or nord types. The crash must have happened at night while everybody was sleeping. Topside, he didn't see anybody nor any bodies in the surrounding waters.

It was late in the day. To the distant left, up high, the Skytemple ruins and beyond it was the familiar OSHA-nightmare bridge to the College of Winterhold. To his distant right was the ruined lighthouse tower above the town of Dawnstar. Even if the water wasn't deadly arctic cold, either destination was too far to swim without reliable flotation.

Huh, if he was lucky, there were boats docked in Dawnstar. He just needed some way to signal them.

Or, wait, was he seeing movement on the shores near Winterhold? One of the things he collected from below was a fancy silver serving tray. Another little collectible was a bottle of clear booze. He used that and a strip of cloth to polish the tray.

He chose to flash at Winterhold. In the game, Dawnstar had a problem with a devil — no, wrong, Curtis, they're 'daedra,' not devils or demons. Game modifiers, challengers, crashers and trashers. A mix of neutrals and chaotics. Ok. Some of them deserved the label of "devil." Like this daedra bitch that sucked out people's souls through their dreams unless the Dragonborn already blew through that temple and help the turncoat priest there and fixed that (hopefully, this Dragonborn wasn't doing the artifact collecting achievement). The jarl there was a paranoid prick. Curtis figured he probably could get help from that dunmer priest or maybe that retired Legion officer there. Oh, and there was that nutcase with his museum to avoid . . .

And Winterhold. That jarl was another prick, the kind that whines about the good-ol' days before he was even born and has this big I'm-the-victim and I-get-no-respect complex. But the college, man, he was sure he could get help and some answers there. He just hoped that the Saarthal mess was already taken care of. The college had never been big on his playthroughs. That was more his pyromaniac little brother's thing.

Of course, he had no way of knowing even if it was Game Time Skyrim; how far the Game had progressed, or if he had arrived before it started or this was after it ended. Still, he was pretty sure it didn't matter because there was no way he was the Dragonborn. After all, he didnt just fall into the back of a cart on the way to Helgen. He could choose. He'd start with Winterhold.

He started flashing Winterhold and hoping somebody there realized a steady, regular flash of light meant someone needed help or, at least, got curious as to why somebody was being visually annoying.

The sun sank a hand's width down.

"A little trouble, dunmer?" He looked down. An argonian with a green frill, twin rows of horn stubs and a red-feather crest stared up at him from the water.

"Yeah. I prefer hot water for my baths." He squatted and reached down to haul the argonian aboard. "Hist's blessing. Don't know if I could take another night out here. Name's Curtis."

"Hist's blessings, dunmer. I am Drains-the-Swamp. Project manager of the Winterhold Shoreline Reclamation Project."

"Whoa. No kidding? You hiring?"


	2. Chapter 2 Winterhold

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise Second Life mod creators, etc.

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Chapter 2: Winterhold

The ship had been the Skinny Horker. According to the sodden captain's log, it had been on its first run for the East Empire Trading Company and its planned route was to have been from Windhelm to Solstheim to Dawnstar to Solitude and then back to Windhelm. How the ship came to wreck was unknown. As luck would have it, he was the only survivor. Anybody who'd survived the initial crash but fell in the water or tried to swim would have quickly succumbed to exposure and drowned.

He waited two weeks, just settling in and orienting himself to this new reality; tweaking his game knowledge to what he was learning just from talking with people. The argonians were happy to give him a job. Local workers were hard to come by, most not willing to work with necros and slavers and taking orders from boots.

It was still early in the 4th era and Dragonborn Antonia Felix had taken over the college after the Saarthal incident and the resignation of Archimage Savos Aren. Rumor said it was a nord woman who was the dragonborn, although no one knew what she looked like because she wore an iron dragonpriest mask which she refused to take off in public. Ulfric Stormcloak still ruled Windhelm, the stalemate between the empire and stormcloaks was still there and the thalmor still being obstructive asses to both.

Curtis found it astonishing that Winterhold was actually rebuilding and that the driving force was Ulfric who had hired the argonian construction company to head the project. Korir's game replacement, Kraldar, if Korir got deposed later in the game, was now the hold's steward, the previous dunmer steward having done a midnight run.

Wait. Ulfric was a force of renewal? He was actually spending some of that gold he collected from his fanatics to support his people? He was willing to work with dunmer and argonians? Curtis asked questions. A lot of the credit was going to the dunmer that Ulfric had made steward of the Gray Quarter. A shopkeeper. And one who turned out to be quite clever when it came to making money when given incentive. A Sadri. House Hlaalu of course, House of Equal Opportunity (and Opportunists). At one point the shopkeeper had nearly been accused of treason, but had managed to dodge that charge. Ulfric decided to harness some of that cleverness to solve problems he had in his city with the Gray Quarter; choosing expediency over idealism.

It seemed to be working. Witness the shoreline project in Winterhold, an effort to revive the hold's past ship-building and fishing industry. Witness the growth in the Rift. Stormcloaks may grumble at the noticeable presence of the dunmer, but the gray folk loved the volcanic areas, were settling in, and producing taxable wealth. They also took out their aggressions against bandits and vampires. They were incidental stormcloak allies by their instinctual rejection of the Dominion and of the altmer.

Curtis also found it fascinating that the Archimage Dragonborn was also called "Lady Ice Dragon." Her reputation painted her as the arrogant, aloof bastard child of a Legion officer who dishonorably took advantage of a young, naive nord healer mage of Winterhold College. Yet despite her scorn of the stormcloak cause, she encouraged her college folk to start mingling with the townsfolk. Steward Kraldar had been particularly strong in welcoming them, avidly courting relations with the college professors, inviting them to dinners to talk about ways to rebuild both the college's and Winterhold's reputation in the world. The town soon realized Master of Wizards Tolfdir, who was the only nord master wizard there, was the de facto archimage and the Dragonborn a political figurehead. Curtis knew from the game, and confirmed by locals, that the man was easy to approach and talk to. But the times Curtis was off work didn't seem to mesh with the times the wizard visited town.

So now that he had a steady job for the forseeable future and that he was fairly caught up with events in the world, he decided it was time to try and consult with the college wizards about his situation. He walked into the newly built office building at the foot of the bridge to the College. Inside were two dunmer clerks handling mail and taking down requests from the public.

"Services or consultation?" asked the clerk.

"Consultation."

"Specific school of magic or specific person?"

"Um, Master Urag, Arcanium, or anyone who can help me with trans-dimensional travel and/or soul displacement."

"Urgency?"

"Well, it's important to me, but I am hoping someone will see me fairly soon."

"Name and how may we contact you?"

"Curtis Johnson." The clerk gave him that "you've got to be kidding," look that all dunmer gave him when he said his name. "Um, I'm working at the shoreline project but I'm going on a pilgrimage to Azura's shrine so I'll check back in three days to see if anyone's responded."

"Anything else you would like to add?"

"Yeah. Um, I've been having dreams of, of dying and every time I see an owl and I hear the name 'Savos,' the name of the previous archimage. I don't believe this is a dream caused by that nightmare god chick."

"Thank you. This will be forwarded to the appropriate party."

"Thank you, ma'am, uh, sera."

He wandered over to the town's newest attraction. Two days ago an ice dragon had attacked the town. There had been deaths. It had taken the wizards a while to kill it. A mix of guards and wizards stood ready to attack the corpse if it so much as twitched. Of course he'd visited the corpse like so many others had. The guards prevented people from naturally wanting to take souvenirs because the corpse was still deadly. Instant frostbite to touch it. No wonder the nords of the past just heaped rocks and dirt over the fallen bodies. He went to the head and stared into the glazed over eyes, the gaping maw.

"Crazy, crazy world," he told it. "Feeding on the souls in Sovngarde won't save Alduin. The Dragonborn is on his ass. And even hiding out in the lands of death won't stop her from fucking him over. And when Bormahu himself comes to pick his sorry ass up he'll shred up in Bormahu's light like the fucking vampire he is. That's how it's gonna go. Then what are the rest of you gonna do, huh? Alduin tricked you all. No god brought you back. A vampire did. A vampire bloated on the souls of joor. Are you the children of Bormahu or of Molag Bal? The dragon cult is dead. World's gotten too big and scary on its own to be scared of flying lizards anymore. We know you can die. You know it too. And where do you go when you die? Do you remember? If you manage to revive before the Dragonborn comes back to eat your soul, I recommend you get some therapy from Paarthurnax or find some moutaintop away from us joors. Not in the Reach though. There's a crazy chick there who thinks it's her destiny to revive the Akaviri dragon-killing hobby. Hell, she wants the Dragonborn to kill Paarthurnax. Doesn't care that our boy's been helping against his brother and teaching the graybeards. Ain't gonna happen."

"Perhaps Crazy Dunmer should go sleep off whatever he's been drinking because he's upsetting the nords," hissed a voice behind him.

Curtis looked back and said without thinking, "Oh, hey, J'Zargo. Sorry I sold your test scrolls but after the first one backfired on me, it wasn't worth the risk. Later." He brushed by the khajiit, thinking he really should get some sleep because tomorrow he'll be joining the pilgrim group heading to Azura's Shrine.

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_GalacticHalfling__: I don't remember either. May have been some Reddit convo I'd stumbled across while tracking various threads (which I've never found again) and for some reason that number stuck. But I'm not a fanatic about that number. I consider 300 an average for a moderatly healthy life not extended by magic._


	3. Chapter 3 Game Modders

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise Second Life mod creators, etc.

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Chapter 3: Game Modders

There were now steady streams of pilgrims going to Azura's shrine. Trekking up to the shrine was marginally made safer by volunteer shrine guardians. The shrine guards only came to town once a week to escort pilgrims. One could, of course, choose to make the journey without them and plenty did without encountering bears, wolves, trolls, ice-wraiths, or bandits, or accidentally climbing up the wrong path and ending up at a dragon's feeding ground. And the snowstorms were survivable if one was prepared and well-armed in case the ghosts in the storms, the falmer, were out and about.

The shrine guards didn't charge for the service and Curtis counted the purse he handed over as a donation. The large lodge with smoke curling out of its chimney was new and a blessed sight after trudging through the snow. He'd seen the guards use the money he'd donated to buy the food and medical supplies that stocked the lodge and was available to pilgrims.

Two levels in the lodge. The open, upper level had rooms for the three attendant priests and their library. The lower floor was open design with storage shelves along the walls and large trunks bolted in place where pilgrims could store items during the time they were here, but they provided their own locks. No private rooms; just throw a sleeping pad on the floor. An open kitchen with basic cooking pots and utensils and food staples that stored well in the smaller, cold room in back. Privies were a separate room attached to the main building and kept warmer than the outside by magic heat runes. The guards had their own snug shacks on the slope below the lodge and near to the cement furnace that heated all the buildings.

After a communal dinner, Curtis strolled outside and to the base of the statue. Azura against the twilight sky was just as beautiful and awe-inspiring in reality as in game. The crimson light of the setting sun seemed to give her stern expression life as if the daedra was there and not just a shell. A play of shadows, but then, that was Azura, wasn't it? He knew a lot of ladies who only seemed to come alive when the sun went down. Night owls. He frowned, wondering if she had anything to do with this, but then shrugged it off. Didn't seem her game unless it involved Nerevar.

"You asked specifically to see me."

Her real voice from the game voice had a different timbre and was smoker tinged, the voice type he associated with Morrowind, but she looked the same. "Priestess Ienith," he said, half-bowing to her. "Curtis Johnson. Yeah. I figured since you used to talk directly with Azura you wouldn't automatically think me totally insane when I tell you my story."

"You presume my communications with our god grants me insight to bouts of insanity?"

"Aw, no, no, I didn't mean that," said Curtis, flushing. "Look, I know you talked to Azura until the Dragonborn found her Star and then the goddess dropped you 'cuz she didn't need you to speak for her anymore."

"The Archimage Dragonborn is the champion of Akatosh," said the priestess frostily. "The Champion of Azura is Helsette Faro of Cheydinhal and lately of Windhelm. But do go on with your story."

Oh, ok. Another confirmation that the Dragonborn was playing the double-life game of superhero versus regular hero, the non-Dragonborn being a spellsword named Helsette Faro Sadri, the wife of the dunmer steward of Windhelm. As a hero, the Missus Sadri had a good public image as a likable, cheerful adventurer. Everyone knew she was half Imperial — that same despicable Imperial Legion Legate who sired the Dragonborn and cast her and her mother off so they wouldn't embarrass his dunmer wife — herself a bastard child of, guess who, King Helseth of Morrowind — and who was also his superior officer in the Legion.

He bet the priestess knew the champions were one and the same, but was invested in the shell game. S'all good. He could play, too.

Curtis then realized just what other he'd said and he groaned, even more embarrassed. "Aw, shit. 'Scuse my language, ma'am. I didn't mean to make it sound like the goddess just dumped you because she had no use for you. But, you know, you did what she needed you to do — you led her people out of Vvardenfell to here so it was time for the next stage of her plans. And sometimes, at a new stage, a new project leader with different talents is needed."

After a moment the priestess gave him a small smile. "Thank you. I had not considered that."

"Yeah, well, er . . ." Curtis glanced over his shoulder up at Azura's face. "I know virtue, er, faith is suppose to be its own reward, but, y'know, sometimes even the most dedicated sometimes needs a 'thank you' and bosses too often forget that. Um, no offence, Prince Azura. Like, I'm not telling you your business. Just saying from a mortal perspective."

The priestess gave a small laugh of amusement. "Come, it's getting cold enough for even me now. Let up return inside and I would be glad to hear your problem and give what help I can."

She brought him to a small room next to her bedroom on the upper level that she used as her study, gave him a golden tea that tasted like a sweet dandelion tea, and sat quietly as he told his story of another world where her world, this Mundus, was a game; how he died from what he now believed was a brain aneurysm; and how the game was no longer an amusing pastime to a hijacked soul dropped into someone else's body. And why he came to this shrine with his problem was because, one, he'd been dropped into a dunmer body instead of, oh, say, a redguard or other human and, two, if this was a daedra's act then Azura seemed the safest one to approach for answers.

"Can you recall anything unusual in the hour or even the day before your death? Meet or interact with a new person who seemed unusually strange to you, even mad?" she asked.

"Nope. No one that stands out from the usual crazies."

"Hm, then any event, no matter how fleeting, that struck you as out of place or profound?"

Curtis nodded . "Yeah. An owl. You don't see them in the city outside of zoos. And it wasn't a spotted gray. This one was bigger than an eagle and white and gray with red eyes. It nearly hit me and then seconds later I had my aneurysm."

"You've said that word before, 'aneurysm.' What is that?" the priestess asked.

"Oh, that. That's a medical condition where a blood vessel get weak points and may eventually burst under pressure. Internal bleeding. In my case, somewhere in my brain. Can leave you permanently crippled or, like in my case, dead."

"Ah. And so you think this owl may have caused your aneurysm then?"

"No. To be fair, I've been having medical problems for a while. Things hadn't been going well in my life and I'd gained too much weight, got the triple-curse of diabetes, high blood pressure, and cholesterol from stress and bad eating habits. My doctors have been ragging on me to find ways to relax and get my bad habits under control or I'd never make it to my 50's.

"On the previous 'relax-or-die' weekend I took my nieces to the Daybreak Star Center to where some native northwest indian art was being displayed and traditional storytellers were visiting. Ate some good fried food, which I shouldn't have because diet restrictions to lose weight, you know, and we listened to stories about tribal spirits. My nieces went for the owls because of all the spotted owl hype and illegal killings. Generally, to the natives, the owls were the souls of the deceased ancestors and were bringers of wisdom, intuition and prophecies and sacred knowledge. 'Course, mostly seen as bogeymen. You know, tell the kiddies to get to sleep and no crying or the owl will hear them and carry them away. Also, that hearing the owl hooting in your dreams means that you will die soon.

"Although, if I could choose a totem animal, it would be the otter 'cuz they stand for intelligence and resourcefulness and doing all that while having fun. If you ain't laughing, then you ain't living. And I hadn't been laughing for a long time now." He fell silent and drank his tea while thinking of his last months of life. How fucked up and out of balance it was that even trying to relax seemed a tiresome burden and only added pressure to fix "what ain't right."

"So Savos lives again," said the priestess surprising Curtis who scrambled to make the connection to his life and that of the retired Archimage of Winterhold.

"Uh, Archimage Savos Aren? I heard he retired," he said uncertainly.

"Yes. And died recently on the island of Solstheim as the Champion fought the First Dragonborn in Apocrypha. The sacrifice of his life opened the way for the owl god to fly from Aetherius into Oblivion to fight his ancient enemy, Hermaeus Mora."

"The _First_ what? _First_ Dragonborn? Not a Skyrim story I know of. May have been an expansion game or a fan mod. And in game his death was senseless and served only as a plot device that cleared the way for the Dragonborn to become archimage. And—what'd you say—the owl god?" Curtis fell silent, thinking. "What owl god? I don't recall one in the game."

The priestess nodded thoughtfully and said, "I have been told this owl god is an ancient god of Atmora and is named Jhunal. When the alessian empire worked to integrate their allies of the nord empire, it's only natural they try to align their respective gods. That atmoran god was thought but another name for Julianos, but they are, in fact, separate entities."

"Yeah, I get that. Christianity did that too, renamed a lot of native gods as christianized saints to pacify the locals. But they had the same function, right? Enlightenment? Wisdom?"

"So I am told. Different approaches to wisdom, but the end goal appears to be the same."

"S'all good. People have different ways of learning. Me, I'm less theory, more hands-on type of guy."

"Then Jhunal would suit you more."

"Yeah? God of the trade schools then." He sighed deeply and stared into his tea as if looking for the future in the bits of leaf swirling at the bottom. "You think Jhunal or Savos might have something to do with me being here? Why?"

"Were it the Mad God, I would say amusement. Were it Hermaeus Mora, I would say sabotage. But Jhunal? I don't know. No one yet knows the characteristics of this divine who has usurped a daedra's throne. And if he is responsible, what does it mean when a divine meddles directly in the world as a daedra does?" Priestess Ienith frowned. "You say you are, were, a crafter in your world?"

"Engineer. Mostly electrical, but I've done plumbing, welding, heavy machine operation, forging."

The priestess nodded and twisted to the table at her left where she plucked paper, quill and inkpot from its drawers. "Have you talked to anyone at the college?"

"I left a message at their front desk asking to consult with Master Urag, or anyone interested in talking with a mad dunmer with delusions of coming from another world," he answered, drily.

"Ah." She penned a note, sanded it off, folded it, and then extended it to him. "Present this to them. My recommendation that your situation is a serious matter. That should guarantee they will see you."

"Thank you, ma'am. I really appreciate this."

The priestess stood up. "It is time to rest," she announced. "You, too. Dawn service is in five marks. Azura guide your steps.

"And keep you safe until you can learn your destiny."

"Thanks again," said Curtis, standing and turning to leave.

However, the priestess held a hand up, halting him. "The one whose body you now possess, I saw him in Raven Rock. A lost soul without the guidance of the one who had ordered most of his life. Simple minded in that he was not given to original or complex thought, yet was a deadly fighter. His name was Slitter. His master had many enemies and Slitter protected him. His master is dead but his many enemies may continue to see you as a target for their vengeance. For now you would do best to wear some sort of armor and to be cautious around anyone from Raven Rock."

"Oh, fucking great. That explains my sudden obsession with big swords and scary homicidal notions. I know that's not me. Thanks anyway. Gives me something to work with. Nothing like inheriting someone else's baggage, especially when it's full of severed heads."

"So long as you are aware then, sera. Sleep well."


	4. Chapter 4 You are new here, yes?

Revised 08/20

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise mod creators.

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**Chapter 4: You are new here, yes?**

The note from Ienith, priestess of Azura, got him the attention of Tolfdir, Master "Here, you hold off the homicidal walking tomb-jerky while I figure out how to deactivate this incredibly powerful alien technology I've never seen before. Oh, and I seem to have lost my alembic." Nice fella in life as well as in the Game. The wizard was fascinated by Curtis's story. He even escorted Curtis to the Arcaneum to talk to Master Urag. The Orc then proceeded to gut him with questions about his life, his world, and the Skyrim game.

Well, general questions. The Orc wasn't presently interested in details. However, Curtis recognized the hungry gleam in the scholar's eyes; the librarian was probing every major topic he could think of to identify those of greater interest or importance for future in-depth study.

Curtis expressed his interest in Dwemer studies and they assured him they'd introduce him to Mage Lord Demnevanni when he returned from his trip to Bthalft. "Hard to believe you'd be able to pry him away from the Forge," Curtis remarked. That led to being asked how he knew of Demnevanni, which segued into a barebone walkthrough of the House Telvanni quest "_Convince Baladas to join the Council_" in the Morrowind game and then back to explaining what 'forge' he had referred to.

After that he'd explained the Skyrim "_Lost to the Ages_" quest, a quest mod only available if one bought the Dawnguard expansion, which his young brother did, and Curtis later watched his playthrough.

He was offered a job as a general consultant with a very handsome fee attached. For one day a week Curtis would come to the College and work with Urag. They'd originally offered him full-time employment as a researcher. Urag was putting a lot of effort in being an affable, friendly, and reasonable, but Curtis knew how intense some people could get when caught up in academic obsession. As it is, this job was agreeing to a thorough brain enema once a week. He knew he would need the intensely physical job with the shoreline project to even things out.

"I didn't come with reading skills pre-installed like my language skills were so I'll have to decline," said Curtis. "So far I've found I can speak what we're talking now. I call it Imperial Common, and I can speak whatever dialect of Slitter — that's who Priestess Ienith told me used to own this body — whatever Slitter spoke. Don't know if Slitter could read, but I know I can't."

"Hm. Indulge me a moment," said Urag. He wrote on some parchment and handed it to Curtis.

"Yeah. Nope. Still can't read," said Curtis. "One looks like Tolkien elvish, something in Sanskrit, something Cyrillic, something Arabic, something Rosetta Stone cuneiform, which must be Dragon."

"Altmer, Dunmer, Imperial common, Redguard, and Dova," said Tolfdir. "The phrase was 'You are now in Tamriel. Welcome.'"

"Can you say that in the corresponding languages?" Curtis asked. Tolfdir did so. "Vaguely Welsh, some fancy-dancy Dunmer, what we're talking now, Arabic or middle eastern, and the last, not as guttural and abrupt as Klingon but I know that's Dragon. _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin. Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!__"_ he sang.

"Very nice. Can you speak Dragon?" asked Urag.

"Nah. But that's the theme song for the Game and I got a good memory if there's music attached. Don't have to understand the words because words just become a specific set of sounds in the music."

"Nevertheless, you seem to show a good awareness in identifying languages, even if they're ones I've never heard of," said Urag. "We can set up instructors."

"I'm already working on that," said Curtis. "The literacy classes for adults run in the evenings at the new schoolhouse. But once I get my skills high enough, I'd like the opportunity to study some of the books here."

"Still, I want to begin recording some of your knowledge before you get too confused," said Urag somewhat ominously. "Can you still read and write your English?"

Curtis's mouth dropped open as he thought about it. "You know, it never occurred to me to… um…" He looked around and Urag obligingly shoved paper and an inked quill at him.

Right. Muscle memory. He didn't have the right ones. Normally, he could scrawl off his signature without a conscious thought. But now his fingers wouldn't work properly. Couldn't hold the pen properly. And as he concentrated on moving fingers, he found he was suddenly confused about the letter forms that corresponded with his own name.

Shit. He wasn't even sure he could print his name. Now his hand was shaking and the quill tip was crushed against the paper. His mind was tilting off-center and warping as it strooped to implement what should have been automatic, mundane response.

"Steady there," Urag rumbled, his hands clamping down over Curtis's to still them while Tolfdir was now behind Curtis, hands on his shoulders and muttering a spell. Curtis felt himself calming.

"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly. "Don't know what came over me."

"I'm surprised you didn't have hysterics before now," said Urag. "The research done by Falion proposes that the body, spirit, and soul are three distinct elements and the mind as a conglomerate of the three, the conglomerate becoming almost a fourth distinct element."

"Holy Trinity versus Holy Quaternity. Two points establishes a plane, the third a depth, the fourth stabilizes by setting time…" Curtis babbled, eyes glazing. Urag glanced at Tolfdir who recast the Calm spell. "Sorry. I've always found theology and psychology funny business," said Curtis. "The more we try to define it, the less words mean. Same with physics. I call string theory the rope we hang ourselves by."

He reached up and clawed a bit at his scalp and ears. He vaguely noted that this was Slitter's gesture; his own habit was to cross his arms and bite his thumb when wrestling with confused thoughts and emotions. "OK. So some god 'ported me, the opsys, into Skyrim and into the body of some low-rent thug who, if Priestess Ienith is correct, came from Raven Rock. I mostly operate OK, but the longer I go, the more adjustments I'll discover and need to make with legacy software and interfaces. Yeah. I can work with that. Just need to process this a bit more." He noticed the two wizards exchanging more glances. "Oh, sorry. Don't need to hit me again with the spell. Sorry for interrupting. You were saying…?"

Master Urag was scowling. "Interesting. If I heard correctly, yes, you will be dealing with 'legacy' traits inherent in your new body. You say the priestess knew the former soul?"

"Yes. She said he used to be a bodyguard for someone. Warrior type, which I'd already figured out. I seem to have this attraction to weapons I didn't before. And I get these weird dreams of practice fighting with a claymore or a dagger, or nightmares of actually killing people in combat with these weapons. I've been thinking of finding sparring partners. Y'know, a little mind-body bonding. Learn some of what's been trained into this body and also teach it martial arts stuff I used to do. Find some people who wouldn't mind helping me set up a gym, one a bit better than the sad-ass training yard the guards are currently using 'cuz — Sorry. I'm babbling again. I don't mean to keep interrupting you."

Plus, he was getting nervous with the way Urag was note-taking. When an Orc was dead-eyed analyzing you over those meat-tearing tusks, it seemed wiser to shut up.

The wizards backed Priestess Ienith's story that Hermaeus "Tentacle Hentai Master" Mora was currently dethroned from his realm of Apocrypha, and a new god had taken over. If it was this new god and not Sheogorath flexing his new power and snatching people from other worlds, then this was a matter worth assigning some masters to research.

The wizards ended the meeting by solemnly warning Curtis not to reveal too much about his past or to expose too quickly his level of knowledge of current events and people and even less the technological advances of his world. They trusted he would understand their seeming paranoid concerns.

"Sure," he said with a sigh of resignation. "Thalmor for one with their whips-and-tell dungeon parties; people wanting an edge up over killing enemies like in any other war across the universe; and any other fool who wants a shortcut to wealth, fame, and power and who don't care who they have to steal it from or destroy. Yeah, I got it."

"We hope you do," said Tolfdir in a frighteningly gentle voice of doom. "From what we hear, your game profiles of us are superficially very good. But we are not game pieces. You have admitted to us you are aware of many situations and people that differ from this Skyrim game you are so familiar with. That is good.

"Master Curtis, you appear to be adapting well to the shock of this transference from your world to ours and you've impressed us with your intelligence, your ability to stay sane, and your willingness and initiative to make a place for yourself on Mundus. We look forward to learning much more. For now, you may consider yourself a member of the College and may call upon us for assistance."

It was very late and Tolfdir escorted him to an unassigned room in the student's hall to rest in. The silk sheets were nice and unexpected. Really nice silk. Then he spotted a pair of distinctive black and gold gloves on the bedside table. Oh. Stick him in the dead Thalmor's room. Yeah, that one was beyond caring who enjoyed his fancy summerset silks. He wondered if anyone would care if he nicked the sheets.

When he woke the next morning it was to see J'zargo parked in the room's chair. The Khajiit tossed a scroll into Curtis's lap.

"The spell has been improved. Crazy Dunmer who thinks life is a game should try again."

"Uh, I'm gonna pass. Besides, I can't read at the moment." He kicked aside the silks and swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up.

"And the only undead around is me until I can find me some coffee or strong tea. Did you boost the user protection to compensate for the holy hand-grenade blast power you added to the flame cloak spell? Even being a Dunmer that singed a layer of skin off."

J'zargo's ears flattened. "Clever Antonia suggested the same," he conceded. "That has been done.

"But who are you, Crazy Dunmer? You have never been a student here," J'zargo stated in a low, deceptively lazy tone.

"Sorry. You're right. I'm not. My name is Curtis Johnson. I know, I know, that's not a Dunmer name and I'm no Nord and my father's name isn't John, it's Sam."

Curtis eyed the Khajiit, now recognizing the cat's robes reflected his rise from novice to adept in Destruction. He was probably not a student anymore, but was still with the college doing graduate work and probably instructing novices. The thought of this Khajiit giving safety lectures brought a grin to Curtis's face. "If novice is interested in extra credit, J'zargo has scrolls to test." He laughed, and J'zargo's ears dipped even lower.

"It's funny how I'm finally here at the College," said Curtis, waving a hand around at the walls and, he hoped, distracting the cat from the dead-on assessment that he was being laughed at. "My brother's the college type, but he'd go nuts without his 'puters and the kids he's tutoring in robotics. They're in the finals for the National Junior Battlebots tournament and they've got a design that could win the championship." No, he reflected, his brother right now had everything going for him and losing all of it for Skyrim was unacceptable; whereas his own life, until his death, had been on a death spiral. Hah. Death spiral. The job he'd died on would have only held off the bank just barely until the first of several scheduled bankruptcy hearings.

The Khajiit stared hard at him then finally his ears came up and he seemed to relax. "Naaza? Pewters? Row-botics?" He repeated the alien words, testing them against what he knew. "Battle pots? Dunmer speaks of, of Dwemer machines for children?" He pushed his hood down and scratched at his ears.

Really, a handsome cat, Curtis thought. Sideburns like a lynx, fur pattern like a bobcat's, overall head, body, limb ratio was humanoid except for the tail. He knew Skyrim cat people could have different body types depending on the moon phases.

Theory only. Animation models were kept as generic as possible, which explains why lizards had mammary glands and cats had only two teats. However, the two lizard ladies in the Argonian team were flat and hard to distinguish from the males except for wider egg-hips, the only concession to some ancient connection to the Aldmeri common ancestor back in the hazy days of when the gods were concept-creating the world.

Curtis didn't waste too much brain energy trying to figure out evolution lines. He still found it funny the Argonians bothered at all with sex distinct clothing. Or maybe that was a concession made for living outside of Black Marsh? Whatever.

He also supposed the cats could get away with only two teats because they were also supposed to be mutations off the baseline elven stock. He'd read somewhere that some variations of Khajiit were so indistinguishable from Bosmer that the cat-born actually tattooed fur patterns into their flesh so as not to be mistaken as Bosmer.

J'zargo shifted position, leaning forward and drawing Curtis's attention back to the now. "Dunmer requested assistance with transdimensional travel and soul displacement. It went to Master Urag's desk as requested and then was forwarded to Master Tolfdir as important enough to bring to the Archimage's and Master Tolfdir's attention.

"And then J'zargo overhears a strange speech to a dead Dragon. Dunmer who speaks of things one should not know nor speak so freely of in the presence of Nords."

"Yeah? And how much does J'zargo know of the Dragonborn's business?"

The Khajiit grinned, part humor, part threat. "J'zargo knows enough. J'zargo has the wit to piece together many facts to a mystery."

"J'zargo also has big ears," said Curtis, smirking, remembering seeing the Khajiit entering at the far end of the Arcanium and pulling books. He didn't remember seeing the man-cat leave, but then his attention had been on Tolfdir and Urag. The Arcanium was probably not the best place to be talking if one needed privacy. They had been consciously keeping their voices down, but the problem with living in a multi-species environment is the tendency to forget little things like relative ear sensitivity. No doubt those kitty ears had been full-on pointed where they had no business being.

"J'zargo has many gifts that are a part of his greatness," agreed J'zargo, muzzle whiskers flexing upwards in a cat smirk.

Well, that was true. Curtis knew from his brother's wizard-build playthrough that J'zargo was a tank of a battlemage and one of the very few NPCs in the vanilla game that had no leveling cap, meaning he leveled up along with the Dragonborn.

Curtis usually played the nonmagical armored tank, didn't bother with the College, and engaged the Riften located mage, Marcurio, another non-cap NPC, when he needed magic firepower. He wondered how long and on which quests had J'zargo accompanied the Dragonborn, but it wasn't something he could just come out and ask.

He also wasn't sure if the Khajiit was in on the Dragonborn's civilian identity. He didn't recall explicitly discussing that with Tolfdir and Urag. No, he was certain he never discussed that with them. He wasn't supposed to know after all, and he was cool with that.

Come to think about it, that was why they'd clammed up when he'd casually asked about the Dragonborn's choice of prize in the _"__Lost to the Ages__"_ quest because it hadn't officially been the Dragonborn who'd discovered Bthalft; her alter-ego, Spellsword Helsette, had done the quest. He wondered how many quests were completed by the spellsword persona. He needed to ask around for more stories about the spellsword and then talk with Urag when they next met so that he didn't accidentally give the game away.

J'zargo would certainly have heard him boasting about once being the Dragonborn though. Curtis knew he'd have to be careful. He was still learning how reality differed from the Game, and from the Game he knew the Khajiit was ambitious.

And now, all of a sudden, he was feeling twinges of paranoia.

He really needed to stop relying on Game knowledge. He realized he'd been damn lucky so far, especially with people. So maybe he'd start now and get to know the real J'zargo behind the one he'd known on his 72-inch flat screen TV.

"Mysteries, huh? Well, may the skillful Khajiit be gracious to reveal to me the mysteries of the nearest kitchen where one might find strong hot tea and breakfast?"

* * *

• _Shadowpawzzz: Thanks. My current build is a nord shield maiden + master conjurer who's a master at Block so she tanks into battle in mage garments and shield while two dremora lords run interference. And she just got Auriel's Shield and is doing super smashies. Even more fun than the blooded targe.__• GalacticHalfling: The priestess fortunately has experience with delusional crazies and makes allowances for rudeness._  
_• JDLENL: Yes, an odd and sudden attachment. The first time I came to Solstheim is when my __D__unmer tank discovered he had a long-lost twin brother._


	5. Chapter 5 Worthy of study

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise mod creators.

* * *

Chapter 5: Worthy of study

J'zargo took him to the kitchen in the instructors and senior student's hall because it was generally quieter and better stocked and because the younger crowd in the Hall of Attainment burned through food stores a lot faster so there wasn't much variety left in that kitchen for late risers.

A slender lady with mahogany hair and blue-gray eyes was toasting bread when they came in. She scowled at them but didn't say a word, just finished buttering up her toast and went to one side to eat. Curtis quickly assembled a sub from the bread and cold cuts laid out on a side table and slice some apples and cabbage for greens at the small prep table. No sauce and he didn't see any eggs or oil to make even a simple mayo. Oh, well.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked her and giving her what he hoped was a winning smile. He vaguely heard J'zargo making odd coughing noises. The lady looked him up and down with a sour, disdainful expression.

"And who are you? You surely cannot be a new student," she said in a thoroughly bitchy tone.

"The name's Curtis Johnson and I've just been hired as a consultant," he answered cheerfully as he shifted his plate to his left hand and held out his right. At the way she drew back he figured Slitter's face grinning down at her wasn't one she wanted to see first thing in the morning. Neither did he, truth told, but then he was on the other side of it.

"And what is your field of study?" she demanded.

"Oh, commercial construction. I just got hired here to do some consulting about dwemer tech," he said. "And may I know who you are?"

"Colette Marence. Restorations instructor. Have a seat. I'm just leaving." With that she got up and left the room.

The cat sniffed then stared intensely at him for a moment before declaring, "So, not only is Crazy Dunmer delusional, he is also bizarre in his choice of women."

"Nose out of my business, buddy."

"Then don't make a stink of it."

He was back to hauling rocks onto a barge later that day. Filler rocks. The large boulders were being handled by a team of mages being led by Adept Onmund and they used telekinesis in place of cranes to hoist the tonnage of foundation boulders onto the barges and then into place underwater. Onmund was one of two Alteration mages who knew the underwater breathing spell and so could accompany the argonians underwater to oversee the placement of the boulders. He had to wear a rope harness for two argonians to pull him by because the currents were too strong for non-argonians to swim. The mages were only available a three days a week because of their other studies and projects and the number available varied for the same reasons. And, they weren't being paid for their work; the College had present it to their students as extracurricular practical skill-building exercises

The storms on the Sea of Ghosts had gotten increasingly ferocious the past 200 years since the eruption of Red Mountain according to local word of mouth. Curtis sympathized with Drains-the-Swamp's frustration of not enough data that would affect the project. Too much history of seasonal currents, tidal patterns — all lost. Such mundane records had never been part of the College's collection. The folk surviving the city's collapse (aside from the College folk, the majority which had been dunmer at the time) had been mostly the hunters and miners living the forest and mountains; the jarl of the time and some nobles had been at visiting Windhelm; sea folk, who had been gone on their trade ships, just never came back once they'd realized there was nothing left.

Bringing in argonians to oversee this project had been a risk but the nords had shockingly few people prepared to take on this project. Dawnstar maintained their port, but their location on the coast was just enough that deep sea currents didn't hit landmass the way it did at Winterhold. They had the knowledge to maintain their port, but not enough to create a new one under conditions different than theirs. Windhelm was set far back enough from the coast and at a river deep enough for ships to sail that they never had to worry about shoreline storms. On the surface, the argonians seemed like a good solution.

The argonians had been adapted by their Hist trees to their environment. If he thought about it, he supposed deep-water construction in, say, the swamps and underwater caves of Florida would be insanely different than the shores of the North Sea. Nevertheless, the ability to breathe underwater and strong tails to propel them through riptides was an advantage. Drains-the-Swamp's company, upon accepting the challenge, had created a 3-D contour map of the coastline in their conference tent. Making clever use of special magelight wands and some math they had land formations and depth, tides, underwater currents and speed. Of the season that is. They knew winter was approaching and they had been warned that the currents shifted and got stronger.

The argonians also had a side project of salvaging any treasure they could find in the ruins of Winterhold proper that had fallen into the sea. The long-ago earthquake had created a new continental ledge. Bad luck was that the ruins were on the wrong side of that drop off. Down there the cold, the darkness, and the drop in oxygen levels made it difficult for them to explore the ruins, much less shift the rubble to find valuables. But they needed the treasure to make up part of the construction and payroll funds. Nords may sneer that this was grave robbing, but the other argument was that this was just reclaiming their inheritance to build a future for themselves and their children. Of course the argonians kept some for their trouble, but the rest would hopefully mean taxes would not need to be raised nor Winterhold incur insane debt to burden their children's children with.

Curtis dared to offer his help. It took some fast talking to convince them he knew something of underwater conditions and construction. The argonians didn't outright laugh in his face but were clearly skeptical of his usefulness. So onto a beach test. He'd been working the past month with a leatherworker and bonemold crafter to create goggles and fins. The goggles were easy enough, just a modification of the goggles dunmer ashlanders used to protect their eyes in the dust storms. The fins were a bit trickier. No rubber. The bonecrafter created some nice thin, snappy support struts. The leatherwork was a bit harder, for one, to find the right type of skin, treating it for salt water conditions, then figuring out shape and sewing.

It was a rough swim. Visibility was poor with storm stirred silt; the current, rough. Curtis kept his head and was even more appreciative of his new body. Stronger than he'd ever been and, as Curtis had come to know, took very well to learning new physical skills. No misfiring adrenaline-charged panic just focused surges of power to kick along with down-currents and out of streams. The blood rush of good spirits was a good feeling. Whoever Slitter had been, he'd enjoyed combat. It made up somewhat for the bouts of anger and paranoia Curtis often had to deal with, reflexes triggered by things Curtis had not yet completely identified.

The argonians followed behind him. When they got back to the beach, Scouts-the-Deep, who handled most of the mapping, said, "Very good for a land-strider. You are now in charge of training."

Curtis's main concerns now were depth pressure, how well breathing enchantments worked once he started hitting the oxygen minimum zone below the drop off, and hypothermia and dehydration. The high wind and water churn at the surface should keep oxygen levels at the lower depths fairly good, but theory was all pretty and nice until you banged it against reality to see which cracked first.

Nope. Thin air down there. He brought the problem to the College and got a couple Alteration students to work the problem with. Curtis demonstrated his concepts, like taking them underwater and having them watch as leather balloons deflated under pressure. There were also lectures to Restoration students about barotrauma, dehydration, gas expansion in the guts from increasing pressure, exposure to water-borne pathogens with symptoms they may have never seen before, bone loss… and a lot of other details he could dredge. It helped that the argonians, even they who were designed to live underwater if they wanted, could attest to those same symptoms, though at far a lesser degree for them of course.

It took a good two months to complete the lectures, the practical demonstrations, and to help coordinate alteration, restoration, and enchantment students to create and refine the necessary dive gear for any daring land-strider mad enough to want to work underwater. During that time the promised dunmer engineers who had experience with building and maintaining Vivec City, a city built on pontoons, had arrived. They brought with them tools and spells that help stabilize heavy structures atop water. They were able to add some math formulas that Curtis had been struggling to translate. It became easier on seeing the symbols the dunmer team used to express their mathematics. He was able to add more concepts they'd never considered before; ones they'd never needed to consider because they'd worked for a living god who could manipulate environmental conditions to make construction easier. Their enthusiasm for the new concepts helped solidify Curtis's position at the College as a dwemer-type engineer, a user of brute-force machinery over the manipulation of majicka.

One good result was that there were more students volunteering to work the project in return for more bizarre science lessons from Curtis, also a lot more nords who refused to be shown up as cowards by sneering dark elves and hissy lizards.

Another bonus for Curtis was that he had an excuse to work closer with Restorations instructor Colette Marence because the work demanded more research into modifying or creating new spells and potions to work underwater. The new areas of study and the heartfelt appreciation of the project workers all helped to soothe her ego and to reassure her that her work was important and that she wasn't a waste of College resources like so many small-minded, anonymous note-writers within the College implied. Unfortunately, for Colette, that still meant having to put up with—

"Aaand here we are! Winterhold blue lobster special with garlic butter dipping sauce and basil and potato mash."

—with a talkative dunmer suffering delusions of—

"Starting off with a savory seaweed and shrimp salad, all freshly harvested this morning. It has pepper flakes from Elsewhere, a touch of Goldenglow honey, a savory note of saltrice vinegar..."

At least he could out-cook The Gourmet. Most mages were willing to drop whatever they were doing to work on something for him in exchange for the tasty bribes he came up with. She stared at the giant underwater bug. Its carapace was a pretty, mottled blue with cream spots. Trust a dunmer to see a giant armored maggot and think it delicious.

But it did smell so good.

"The new stuff for breathing is the best yet," he said as he cracked the tail shell open for her and handed her a fork. "Even if it tastes and feels like rotted vegetable slime."

"I'm trying to eat," she snapped. "And we're working on it. We're trying to find a plant with the same qualities that doesn't cause several allergic skin and lung reactions." She swirled the lobster meat in the butter and took a bite. Curtis grinned in satisfaction as her eyes closed and she began making those small noises of pleasure. The Winterhold blues tasted even better than Maine lobster, likely from eating some exotic Tamriel stuff not available on Earth.

Overtly, he'd invited her to dinner to discuss her newest formulations. It was possible to drink potions while underwater, so every land dweller going under carried at least two emergency bottles of that potion, but those potions didn't fully counteract the fact that the deep divers worked in a region where there was very little air to breathe. Colette's solution had been something that made changes to body chemistry; that slowed the demand for oxygen. Downside was that those on the drug and working long and hard for more than four hours under deep pressure were guaranteed victims of barotrauma (the "bends") if they didn't spend another four to six hours in staged ascension. Drug effectiveness had wildly different results between the three volunteer test teams of dunmer, nords, and argonians.

Covertly, well, that had been difficult since she refused to dine with him in any other than a public place. So he'd arranged with Dagur to use his kitchen and for a "private" table for two in the public room.

"Alchemy can be so imprecise," she grumbled. Whoa, lady snapped right out of ecstasy to business. Curtis braked hard then gear shifted to catch up.

"But admit it — it can do things magic can't," said Curtis.

"But it can be so stupid. At least with magic one can work with the body's own inherent knowledge of its own unique structure of health."

"Genetics can be wrong."

"So you keep saying. If only you could provide more substantial proof."

"I wish I could, too."

"It is a fascinating principle you've introduced to us, though," she conceded. "Breeding for desirable traits in plants and animals, of course, is something we've done, oh, forever. But I don't know of any study that has actually tried to codify the, hm, the chemical structures as you seem to think are the basis of our existence. But, I do love that microscope device you designed for us," she added in a gentler voice. "The structures you point out in those miniscule slivers of flesh are fascinating."

"It's a crude build, but it'll do for now. I'm sure the smart kids at the College will refine it now that they've got the idea," Curtis said dismissively. "Anyway, if someone was born wrong, like, born blind or deaf or with a physical or mental mutation or defect, then you can't 'heal' it away. The kid was born with a rotten default setting, and even the strongest magic healing only resets to default at best. You know you can't heal anyone to better than what they were originally."

"That's an essential principle we teach every student of Restoration," she said impatiently.

"And do you teach the principle that the body, stripped of spirit, stripped of intelligence, is nothing more than a machine? A biological machine."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's a principle of Necromancy. The Thalmor also use that precept when breaking and corrupting prisoners to turn them into slaves for the Dominion. It is what the dwemer did to the falmer."

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

"You guess?" Sharply said. And the way she cracked open the lobster claw warned Curtis that he was on shaky ground here.

Whoops. Not the track he wanted to go. He frantically searched through his haphazard knowledge of Elder Scrolls game lore to find a workable reference. "Well... I was thinking more of, um, of Sotha Sil," he offered. "He replaced a lot of his body with dwemer-type machinery. Of course, being a god he could make it work."

"Hm," she hummed, calming down. "I see. But what has this all got to do with improving the ability to work underwater? Are you proposing iron lungs?" Her smirk invited another of his bewildering lectures into the realms of fantasy.

But Curtis wasn't going there tonight. He'd save his definition of iron lungs for later. "Naw. We can talk about vacuum tube experiments later. Ready for dessert?"

"Mm."

Curtis smiled and leaned closer. In a seductive voice he offered, "Tonight, milady, red Cascabel apples in a crumble of toasted oats and honey and nuts, and with a side of salted caramel ice cream."

"Sounds good. What's ice cream?"

"Something non-milk drinkers will snarl with envy over because they're not getting any." He disappeared back into the Frozen Hearth's kitchen with the lobster tray and empty salad bowl and just a swiftly came back with a domed platter. Uncovered, lovely fragrances emerged of baked apples, toasted oats and honey, and various expensive, sweet spices from Elsewyr and Valenwood. Beside the plate of apple crumble was a small bowl with a mound of semi-frozen milk through which ran thick, golden stuff that almost looked like honey. "The height of hubris," he purred as he set the tray before her. "Frozen heaven in the belly for when it's snowing outside paired with the lush fruits of summer."

"Oh. My. Gods."

Curtis smirked and sat back, enjoying the expressions flitting across her face as she ate. Well, as a favorite philosopher from his old world was fond of saying, "If the women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy."

He knew in the game she came across as abrasive and really snooty. But from what he could get from her, her instructors in Kvatch had been altmer. The particular group she'd learned from were Summerset altmers, priests of Akatosh, and she'd absorbed some of their mannerisms which obviously didn't translate well here in nord country. She also had some self esteem issues. Why she persisted in staying in a place that disrespected her as a mage and considered Restoration the province only of priests was beyond him.

She'd been floundering in her efforts to reach Master stage. There were no challenges for her and no colleagues left in her field here. The College's last instructor of Restoration, another Adept in the art, had died shortly after her arrival. This was during the early stages of the Great War. Soon after, many of the College's Restoration students, including that late master's young relative, Helga Ansdotter, mother of the Dragonborn, went to serve in the armies being mustered in Eastmarch and Hjaalmarch. Colette refused the call although the battlefield has always been a place to exercise and strengthen one's skills and find inspiration to innovate. None of them returned. And so her position in the College was by default.

"So. How is it? Or has the splendor of the milky snowball frozen that sharp tongue of yours?" he teased.

"If there's ever a good use of snow, you found it. How fortunate your frequent dunking in the waters around Winterhold has managed to cool your perpetually overheating ego for you to occasionally exhibit some redeeming, useful talents."

"You flatter me, Master Colette, to recognize the tempering of a finely honed mind."

"Even so. But a little more judicious hammer work wouldn't be amiss to correct the warp in your character."

"Excuse me, beg pardon, seras," said Elden, a teen from the nord dive team. He was shaking, although it seemed more from excitement than from the cold.

Curtis automatically got to his feet, ready to react. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"N-no, sir. Well, yes, we — me and Jendla and Nem-Ja — were doing some night-diving around Skytemple ruins. We found something."


	6. Chapter 6 Ring of Fire

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Ring of Fire**

Skytemple ruins, another remnant of the dragon cult that ruled most of Skyrim in the First Era. Who was buried there is unknown. Any markers or etchings or memories were long wiped clean by time. When the Collapse happened, it and the wizard's College were the only stone structures that remained of the great city of Winterhold.

The curses of magic and of dragons, if one were to listen to the embittered Jarl of Winterhold.

Just bad placement was Curtis's conclusion. The 3-D maps the argonians had created with their diving around the bay and their magic wands [an X-ray fluorescent analyzer? a Star Trek tricorder?] showed Winterhold was mostly sand from shoreline up to the mountains. A former sandy seabed raised by tectonics and all areas subject to soil liquefaction under the right conditions. The volcanic explosion in Vvardenfell, presumably another plate, was enough of a shove to subduct the edge of the plate Winterhold sat on.

He was just guessing that's what happened. Watching all the National Geographic specials that came out after the earthquakes in California and the Mount St. Helens explosion in Washington, the "Ring of Fire" excitement was hardly enough to make him an expert. But he thought Red Mountain a hell of a smoking gun. He also thought that the Throat of the World might be a sleeping volcano, what with the Aetherium Forge at Bthalft, the numerous hot springs that dotted the Rift, and the Velothi mountain range that he assumed was created by colliding tectonic plates like what raised the Rocky Mountains back home.

Anyway, Skytemple — a sizeable, solid landmass that remained after the soil around it liquefied and sloughed off into the sea. Afterwards, in the icy waters and grinding currents, there managed to spring beds of mussels with a unique mutation of bioluminescence. The meat was riddled with parasites but it was a sight to see in the evening when the mussels opened and delicate, glowing fronds emerged to sift the water for food. Of the entire coastline, they were only around Skytemple; and from there formed a suspiciously delicate and unnaturally straight line to the drop-off.

A boulder had broken off the Skytemple isle and rolled into the beds. The tides had pushed the rock about, crushing the mussels and eventually scraping the tiny bodies aside to uncover the massive, damaged gold pipe that a trio of young, dive-team leaders had found during their unsanctioned sea walk to explore the pretty, glowing mussel beds. The damaged pipe leaked heated water and chemicals which appeared to explain how the unique local sea life came to be.

Scouts-The-Deep and Fish-Breath, two of the three primary project managers, followed it further to the drop-off and over and found the end of three grate-capped pipes. Two spewed hot water out and the water samples they took from the immediate outflow were heavy with substances that also dulled their scales and made their flesh itch for days. One pipe sucked in water but, fortunately, without much force so they weren't in any real danger.

The three young fools, though lauded for the discovery, still received angry lectures about their impulsiveness and disregard of safety protocols, especially in light of their responsibilities and positions as dive captains for their respective groups of nords, dunmeri, and argonians, and were penalized by reduced pay for several weeks. As important as this find was to the College, the priority and sole focus was the breakwater project and not the mystery of a hidden dwemer whatever.

It was even more important now to salvage what treasure they could from the ruins of Winterhold. Scientific enthusiasm was not enough without the gold to fund a project.

+—+—+—+—+

"We will be getting a sizeable addition to our workforce," announced Drains-The-Swamp at the monthly projects meeting held in the Frozen Hearth where work leaders of the project and anybody else who was interested could attend. And it was usually a packed house ever since Curtis had started the tradition of laying out snack dishes of delicacies he'd personally prepared.

"I wrote my uncle at Ivarstead of our need for labor and yesterday I received his response. He has recruited for us 50 young ones from the Geirmund's Honor orphanage. Be pleased to note, honored hosts of Winterhold, that they are all nord children collected of the Pale and of Winterhold. They are eager to prove themselves and earn honest pay so that they might resettle here in the north. They are on the march even as my uncle's letter was sent and should arrive in two weeks.

"And there will be another 30 or so to temporarily live at Winterhold, but only for the project and not to settle. Argonians from Windhelm. Fish…"

Fish-Breath, a black-scaled, three-toed, hornless argonian like his brother, Scouts-The-Deep, stood up. "I have been talking with the ones who work the docks at Windhelm whenever I go down there to inspect and sign for supplies. Though conditions for them have been improving, there is still too much entrenched resentment despite earnest efforts by Steward Sadri of the Gray Quarter and so they have decided it is time to move on. They come here to take over the salvage project. They are used to these cold waters and are fully supplied with their own diving gear enchanted by the Spellsword Faro-Sadri. Indeed, for the past few years they had supplied Windhelm with meat and oils from whales and the other giant fish that they had dared to hunt in the Sea of Ghosts, and so they will also provide to Winterhold while they are here.

"What this also means, Sera Darylin, Master Tolfdir," he said, looking between the dunmer engineer from Morrowind and the Master of Wizards, "we will need to hasten on the fabrication of the deep-water pods. Scouts-Many-Marshes and his people will be living down there for weeks at a time as they sift the rubble for treasure. The adults of course. The younglings and hatchlings and their caretakers we hope can find comfortable housing in town."

"We can throw up some domes quick enough," said Darylin. "Won't be pretty, but we can make adjustments once they get here."

"Honored Kraldar, what are your thoughts? I know this appears to be a further invasion into Winterhold. Have you any immediate concerns?" asked Drains, looking to the nord steward who would have the difficult task of explaining things to the xenophobic Jarl Korir, who was currently touring other Stormcloak holds in an effort to impress and to garner alliances. The Jarl had already made it quite clear to everyone that he resented the presence of argonians and dunmeri, and tolerated them only because he didn't dare kick them back into Ulfric's teeth after soliciting Windhelm's help to rebuild Winterhold.

"At the moment, no. You've already addressed two very important points — the influx of young nords looking to settle and that the argonians aren't interested in a permanent settlement," replied Kraldar. "The areas south of town would work for some grand halls for the newcomers as the land is already clear of trees and is fairly flat and the dragon has finally left. With the extra hands I would think it would be no problem to extend the new city walls to include them. I'll just have to look over the budget for more lumber."

"The College would be happy to provide enchanted tents as we provided for the Azura festival," said Master Tolfdir. "Certainly easier and faster to throw together than stone or wood housing and with no strain on current budgets. More solid, permanent buildings can be delayed until people actually get here and have lived here for a while."

"Perfect, "said Drains. "Mistress Birna..."

"Extra food orders, clothing, household items..." The Winterhold leader of the recently re-established merchants guild shrugged and grinned, "No problem. We'll just send couriers to our suppliers to add to our current orders.

"More pots to bang together, knives, forks, hooks tools..." volunteered the town blacksmith happily.

"Hope some of them want to learn leatherwork. Sewing up that many flippers, tool belts, protective gear..." said his partner, already sighing with weariness as he envisioned future demand.

By the time the kids arrived at Winterhold, there would be plenty of jobs ready for them.

After the meeting formally ended Curtis drifted over to Drains. "An uncle working with the Ivarstead orphans, real nice of him to come through," said Curtis. "Mind if I ask what he's doing in the Rift? Working one of the mining camps?"

"A merchant actually," said Drains. "Uncle Brand-Shei used to work in Riften but moved to Ivarstead when the Honorhall Orphanage moved there."

"'Uncle Brand-Shei?'" Curtis repeated, stunned.

"Yes. He's coming with the orphans. I think you will like to meet him. He was orphaned during the Accession Wars. Perhaps, ironically and possibly, by my ancestors in the invasion force, and then who adopted him. I suppose that makes him my grand uncle. Thus his name. He gets as many confused looks from other dunmeri as do you, Curtis Johnson. Helsette Faro-Sadri helped him find proof of his ancestry in House Telvanni. And Steward Revyn Sadri enlisted his help to free the Honorhall Orphans from the grasp of Maven Black-Briar. When that was done, he moved with the orphanage to Ivarstead where he now runs a general goods store and helps those orphans too old to remain find training and jobs. It is also why he accompanies them here, to see that they all find places and their footing in the world.

"It is entirely thanks to my uncle that I have this job. When the Windhelm steward concocted the mad idea to hire argonians, Brand-Shei was the first he asked for recommendations and contacts because his ties to Black Marsh were stronger than the tribeless argonians in Windhelm. Our uncle has always made sure to maintain constant contact and strong relations with each generation."

"Yeah. Be a real hoot to meet him," said Curtis, outwardly grinning but inwardly cringing. One of his early playthroughs had been as the thief Mudskipper, and anyone doing the Thieves Guild quest line has to frame the luckless Brand-Shei for theft as the initiation test.

"'Hoot?'" repeated Drains.

"A happy noise in this case," Curtis explained absent-mindedly.

+—+—+—+—+—+

Mage Lord Baladas Demnevanni had been let in on the secret that Curtis was from another dimension and one that shadowed the dwemer's fascination with machines. He wouldn't talk to Curtis otherwise. Über-geek, Curtis classed him, socially inept unless you could talk to him on his level and arrogant about it because he was that type of geek and because he was Telvanni.

Curtis asked if Demnevanni and Calcelmo of Markarth, the other über dwemer geek, had a chance to work together. Urag solemnly informed him they did not get along; their debates usually ending up in shouting matches and lightning bolts. Calcelmo had returned to Markarth. They continued to work together through correspondence; they just couldn't stand each other in person. Curtis's reading skills hadn't yet progressed enough for him to read technical material, so he had students read the stuff to him. From what he could gather, Demnevanni was a programmer and Calcelmo was a coder. On the surface it sounds the same profession, but there were significant differences. If the altmer could be persuaded to return to Winterhold by the time they started exploring Skytemple, that would be ideal.

"You want Calcelmo back here. You ready to be roasted by fireballs six ways from Sundas?" asked Urag, smiling somewhat gruesomely behind his tusks. "But, it's your funeral. I'll write him. For an untouched Dwemer site, yeah, he'll come. You explain to Baladas why he's back."


	7. Chapter 7 Move Like This

_A/N: Song by NEFFEX (found while I was browsing for new workout/gym motivation music)_

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Move Like This**

Curtis was wearing heavy chitin armor and he rapped as he worked out, for rhythm and for testing endurance; if he got too winded to rap, then he needed a break because he was getting too exhausted to train safely.

You're never gonna make it  
You're not good enough  
There's a million other people with the same stuff  
You really think you're different  
Man you must be kidding  
Think you're gonna hit it  
But you just don't get it  
It's impossible  
It's not probable  
You're irresponsible  
Too many obstacles  
You gotta stop it yo  
You gotta take it slow  
You can't be a pro  
Don't waste your time no more

Who the fuck are you  
To tell me what to do  
I don't give a damn if you say you disapprove  
I'm gonna make my move  
I'm gonna make it soon  
And I'll do it cause it's what I want to fuckin' do  
'cause all these opinions and all these positions  
They coming in millions, they blocking your vision  
But no, you can't listen, that shit is all fiction  
'cause you hold the power as long as you're driven

You're never gonna make it  
There's no way that you make it  
Yeah maybe you can fake it  
But you're never gonna make it

Are you just gonna take that?  
Make them take it all back  
Don't tell me you believe that  
Are you just gonna take that  
Or will you fucking fight back?

Or will you fucking fight back?

This was mind-to-body bonding; his mind, the late Slitter's body. If Curtis "stepped back" and let Slitter's ghost take over, the ingrained memory of the body was there. Slitter had been a dangerous fighter, brute power and savage, straight for the kill — if Curtis allowed it. He felt like he was driving a car with worn wheel bearings. It needed fixing before the wheels came off the wagon.

"If that is your example of dancing, you're not ready to perform. And what kind of singing is that?"

Curtis halted his judo exercises — which truthfully could pass as dance moves. Hell, he remembered some joker videotaping his class going through the exercises and then adding cheesy disco music before posting it online — and turned to Colette. "If you were expecting some lame-ass romantic fluff, then, no, it ain't that type of song. It's for the doubters and the haters." He pulled off his helmet, showing that he was grinning at her, and picked up a pitcher of cold black tea sweetened with honey and gulped half of it down. "Nothing better than seeing the morning sun on your beautiful hair, Colette, but what can I do for you?"

"I just came by to remind you not to be late to tonight's dinner to welcome Calcelmo back to Winterhold. None of us want to miss the entertainment of you keeping the peace between him and Baladas."

"No worries, babe; I'll be there."

"Are you sure? I'd heard you were planning to go exploring the Skytemple drop off. I know you tend to forget time and if you're deep diving, you can't afford to short your time in the decompression bubble."

"Current got bad suddenly before dawn. We cancelled the dive."

"Oh. Then I'll warn you instead Baladas that went looking for you at the dive sites, no doubt to complain, and he'll probably be even more irked to find he's wasted time looking for you at the beach." Mission done, she went back inside and Curtis wiped down the inside of his helmet but decided not to put it back on. He picked up a jump rope.

He had gotten into a steady rhythm when he heard someone drawl, "Interesting footwork, Ser Johnson."

Curtis stopped, wary. The speaker had approached from the direction of the Arcaneum. Male, dunmer accent, and in full light chitin armor that shimmered with magic. He had a shortsword on his right hip and a pickaxe that glittered with what looked like ice crystals on his left. He was a head shorter and lean built.

Uh-oh. Slitter recognized him and not in a good way. Curtis felt rising anger and his body's ramp-up to fighting condition. He mentally grappled and seized breathing control and forced a calming, deep-breathing pattern.

It was not a quiet process and the other watching him with evidence interest. He took off his helmet, letting Curtis see his tight, sneering smile. "I wonder if I should be flattered for inspiring such reaction. You've been doing quite well for yourself, Slitter."

"Slitter's dead. I'm here now," Curtis said between deep breaths.

"So I've heard. So I've seen. We've been here long enough to choke on all the praise of your brilliance and your innovations, Ser Curtis Johnson. We are impressed."

"That's nice. Mind telling me your name?"

"Ralis. Ralis Sedarys."

"I take it you and Slitter had run-ins in the past."

"Not really. Not me personally. But certainly with my employer Helsette Faro."

"And she's in town?" Despite Splitter's anger/fear reaction, Curtis felt a squiggle of excitement. The Dragonborn was finally here and he'd get to meet her. Faced with that prospect, Slitter went into hiding and Curtis was able to shrug off the last of his body's tension.

But he was let down when Ralis replied, "No. She's still attending to business in the Reach and I wasn't needed. I'm here with my fiancée and her aunt. Her husband, Steward Revyn, asked me to look you over. He's also familiar with your past and is wondering what Mogrul's leg-breaker is doing playing at being dwemer engineer in this critical breakwater project."

"I'm not Slitter and I don't know any Mogrul. Ask around."

"Already done. I've heard of head injuries that have caused unusual brilliance in certain skills, but always with great loss in personality and previous skills. What people tell me of you could not possibly come from the mer I knew in Raven Rock. Except for the temper. I talked to Bravil and Kemir, the brothers you nearly killed five days ago. A very Slitter-like reaction to their attack."

Crap. Two brothers had just arrived in Winterhold with other dunmer from Windhelm looking for work. The two had also recently come from Solstheim. Curtis didn't have the full story from them. All he knew was that they hated Slitter, blamed him for someone's death, and wanted revenge. They'd followed him when he'd left the beach and confronted him on a trail halfway to town. Plenty of loud insults as they worked themselves into a frenzy. From the words, Curtis figured Slitter had done some collecting on them and in doing so had badly injured someone who later died from the injuries. He'd met others from Solstheim who also hated Slitter, but so far he'd been able to talk his way out of a fight.

The sand thrown into his eyes and their attempt to kneecap him brought Slitter out. Curtis didn't remember anything that happened. He'd woken face-up on the ground, iron, magic-draining shackles on his wrist and a gag in his mouth. Fortunately for the brothers, people had seen and got the guards involved. When it was known Curtis was involved, Sergeant Stig had come running with one of the special stun-sticks the College had provided. He'd magically tazered all of them.

"Would Slitter have paid the healer fees? Would Slitter have argued with the Jarl's justice to have the charges reduced to public brawling instead of attempted murder?" Curtis argued. "I'm not him."

"Yet you wear his flesh and stand on his bones. So what are those exercises you do?" he asked, abruptly switching the topic.

"Oh, the jump rope? Footwork practice, endurance building, coordination. Try it."

Ralis accepted the challenge.

"You might wanna drop your weapons first; they'll catch in the rope. And, here, hold the rope here and here. Best length is if the ends don't go higher than your armpits."

Well, Ralis wasn't bad at it. He caught the rhythm quickly, but the unfamiliar activity soon winded him.

Two more armored warriors came onto the roof. They wore fancy bonemold and red silk of the Redoran. The line badges, however, were beyond him. Their helmets were off so he could see they were two lovely ladies. As the came closer Curtis could see the little nicks and scratches of combat. One hadn't yet repaired her leg armor and she limped.

Ralis gladly tossed aside the rope. He went to the limping lady. "I thought you were going to see the healers," Curtis heard him say.

"They were busy at the time. However, we passed the Restorations master on the way up and she said she'd take care of me right after she fetched a student she wanted to test on my leg."

"You're not a teaching subject for students."

"Relax, my dear. This is a school and they have to learn somehow."

"Good attitude," said Curtis.

They looked at him coolly. Curtis blushed. With his new ears he picked up a lot more than he used to and he did have a bad habit of butting into conversations when he wasn't invited. Yeah, he was the type that harassed people who talked too loudly on their cellphone on the bus, in the store, in the bathroom, and he did it obnoxiously by adding comments to their conversations. But these people hadn't been talking at an offensive volume.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to be rude," he said.

"Forgiven. It is pleasing to see one so supportive of education," the injured lady said.

"Curtis Johnson, I introduce you to Muthseras Karis and Melynis Selvaai of House Selvaai of Redoran," said Ralis.

Curtis bobbed a quick bow. "A pleasure, ladies. Curtis Johnson, engineering consultant, College of Winterhold."

"Mysterious possessing ghost," added Melynis with a hard smile. "What happened to Slitter?"

"Don't know, ma'am. He was dead when I got here," Curtis answered truthfully. "The College is trying to help me find the entity culprit responsible for my being here. And this is not something for the general public to know; even most of the masters at the College don't know. As far as anybody's concerned, I'm just a crazy dunmer with delusions of being a nord."

"Do you claim to know nothing about your past?" she challenged.

He looked away towards the statue of Azura in the distance. The other dunmer followed his gaze. "I remember it quite clearly. But my family, my kin, my ancestors are in another planar page in the book of life."

"I'm not a wizard so I can't pretend to understand what you just said," said Ralis. "Speak more plainly."

"Sorry. All I know is I'm here in a world I wasn't born in. Look, if you want more info, you'll have to talk to Tolfdir or Urag. I'm sure if you're... Well, if they think you should know more, then they'll tell you what you need to know. Good enough?"

"Fair enough," said Ralis.

"Say, I don't suppose you know anything about Slitter's past? I've been wondering if I should, you know, apologize to his ancestors. Maybe plant an ash yam in Slitter's memory?"

"I don't know," said Ralis. "You would have to check with the port authority offices of Raven Rock for immigration and tax records. To live and work in Raven Rock he would have to be registered. Only reavers and other criminals and Telvanni bypass the Redoran port authority."

"Oh, right. Guess that would be the logical step."

"We dunmer may not be as anal as imperials or House Hlaalu about paperwork, but the Morvayns have found it necessary to adopt some imperial habits because of Solstheim's rediscovered value as a source of ebony, among other things."

"Right, right," said Curtis. "But enough about me. How 'bout we get inside and get your leg seen to, ma'am?" he said to Melynis. He offered his arm which Melynis looked at curiously. Ralis scowled and held out his hand to his fiancée which she took. They proceeded ahead and Curtis offered his arm to Lady Karis who took it after he tapped the place where her hand should be.

Curtis left them in Colette's care and he hastened to the beach to see if he could meet up with Baladas, but the staff there told him Baladas had just left moments before. Curtis wondered how come they hadn't met on the main trail up. Oh, right. Baladas was a master mage of the old Morrowind. He probably used a recall spell to the College since no one made any comments on seeing the elderly wizard float up and fly back. The Telvanni mage-lords didn't let some piddly little Imperial Decree forbidding teleportation and levitation magic stop them from using their rightful powers.

OK, double-time back up the trail and over the bridge and back into the College. Baladas was in his office in the Hall of Countenance. It was set up more as an office with a desk and bookshelves and tables holding dwemer machine scraps. He had a narrow bed behind a screen for the rare times he stayed at the College. He actually lived in the the southmost part of Eastmarch at Mistwatch Keep, the ruined fortress and surrounding land he'd bought from the Jarl of Windhelm. It was now the center of a small town called Mistwatch and primarily made up of Telvanni and Hlaalu immigrants with a few original nord locals. He accepted graduate students under a modified apprentice program hosted at Mistwatch.

"Tell me why you think we need Calcelmo to investigate Skytemple?" Baladas demanded without preamble.

"Because I believe in cross-disciplinary research." Curtis invited himself to a chair. "Although, technically, you are both in dwemer research but your respective approaches and techniques are different enough to be separate disciplines. Serjo, you've researched the dwemer from their early works in Resdayne. He's studied their cities after they migrated to Skyrim after the formation of the First Council. Since then there were bound to be changes in philosophies and technology. And then you know researchers can have different approaches and insights. The disciplines of dunmer and altmer magics would ensure that even though you both study the same subject. There is also that your research was done in isolation and never shared with others. He's studied other works and contributed to the general knowledge. Your approaches are different. You study the machines. He looks at the people that built the machines. He may not be your level of expertise with the machines, but his documentations reach a broad audience and invite dare others to share their knowledge."

"Tell me something I don't know, ser," Baladas said snappishly.

"Alright." Curtis chewed on his thumb as he thought about it. "How 'bout this — you tell me what you want for you to work with him. But, I warn you, I really don't know enough about the world to do any fetch quests, like, find obscure books for you."

Baladas's eyes narrowed. Stupid! Curtis swore internally. Baladas knew Curtis was from another world, but he hadn't been told the aspect where his world was a fantasy game in Curtis's old reality. "Very well. I shall hold you to your promise of favors to be collected at a later date. Agreed?"

"Um..."

"Nothing that shall put your life in danger. In fact, the first favor requires that you persuade Urag to share with me his notes of your world."

"That might be do-able." A heavily edited share, but he thought he could get Tolfdir and Urag agree to that. Everything except any mention of video games and the Elder Scroll series.

It worked. The welcome dinner for Calcelmo was a dull event in that there were no explosions, but it was lively for those interested in theories about the dwemer, especially when Curtis speculated how the Eye of Magnus, a mysterious object, possibly a work of the Divines, and a device of unlimited energy might be connected to the newly discovered dwemer site. It was actually quite amusing and getting into silly as Curtis plied both fascinated dwemer researchers with a lot of firebrand wine as he first explained the Eye of Magnus to Baladas and Calcelmo, and then he engaged them with a fictitious and wildly improbable story wherein he called himself a memory-confused "Quaid" on a mission to restart a "reactor" buried in a mysterious underground structure.

+—+—+—+—+

Curtis was again "dancing" and rapping as a mix of people filtered into the Winterhold Guards' new training area that the town was now able to afford for them. A few guards, some dunmer, some nords, a couple of College apprentices, Ralis and Melynis, and curious bard crowded in. Starting recently, Curtis taught street judo fighting. Some people had seen him fighting and were interested in his unusual technique. This was just the third session. He gave his usual lecture of the technique being not so much striking and kicking, but grappling and leverage.

Caveat though, as anyone knew who'd done actual fighting, grappling was lousy defense if your opponent was still armed with a knife, spike, or anything sharp. He freely admitted that he was still trying to teach himself how to modify this style to working in armor which could offer enough protection from a blade for one to complete the throw-down of an opponent.

First, though, learn to hit the ground right and not be afraid to get hurt. Apprentice healers were on hand eager to practice their craft on those who didn't have the necessary coordination and/or pain tolerance. Volunteers helped drag and place the heavy padded leather mats into place and tumbling lessons began. No armor for now. A quick demo. Two unarmed guard volunteers came at him. Grapple, slam. Get jumped on. Roll the weight and momentum, choke lock and arm lock. The healers took care of the dislocated shoulder of one volunteer and revived the other choked-unconscious volunteer while he re-emphasized that he was not gonna teach anyone those advanced moves who didn't go through the basics. He was teaching a discipline, not cheat tricks. If anyone was here just for shortcuts, this was not the place.

He didn't expect anyone to leave right off. Nope, the get-to-know-the ground exercises could be counted on to weed out the casuals. Suited him fine. He was already at maximum for projects he could handle. All he really wanted was some steady sparring partners so he could improve his own skills. He already had a couple serious guys, Sergeant Beck of the Guards and J'zargo, both tough, experienced fighters he didn't have to baby along and who already had enough self-discipline in combat to know sparring from the real thing. But, those two had their own work and it was difficult to set up a steady schedule. So the more options he could find the better. Besides teaching would make him slow down to review and practice the basics; make him re-analyze his own competencies.

"So, a fascinating discipline from a servant of Fa-Nuit-Hen?" said Lady Karis to Curtis. She watched with a smile as Ralis and Melynis practiced their tumbling. Melynis had no problem; Ralis was stiff and already was favoring his right shoulder.

"Fa-who?"

"Boethiah's son, Fa-Nuit-Hen, the Multiplier of Motions Known, and whose realm is Maelstrom."

"Oh, wait, wait. That's the guy who Vivec wrote about in his Sermons. Claimed the guy taught him everything about fighting even before he was hatched, right?"

"Sermon 1 of 36. Yes."

"Oh, yeah, yeah. That's the puppy. Me," he chuckled, "a Baron of Move-Like-This. Hah! I like that. Hey! You there! Stop right now. Let me show you what how to do it right 'cuz you're gonna break your neck if you keep doing that."


	8. Chapter 8 Secrets in Saarthal

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Secrets in Saarthal**

Saarthal! The College was still excavating there and they were letting him tour it. Master Tolfdir led the small group past the new security door the College had put up to keep the lower levels sealed. Research down there was by approval only even after the Eye of Magnus had been removed. This little tour was for Baladas and Calcelmo. They hadn't known about the Eye until Curtis had drunkenly blabbed that secret at the welcoming dinner for Calcelmo two days ago. It wasn't something the original staff at the College talked about openly. Curtis's ears still smarted from Tolfdir and Urag ripping into his sorry, hung-over hide about revealing things during a public party — especially College secrets — that he, publicly known to be a refugee from Solstheim, wasn't supposed to know about.

The less said about Urag's reaction of having to share knowledge with Baladas, the better.

Tolfdir told the story of Saarthal to the three master mages — Mysticism Master Edd Theman was also on this tour — and Curtis's dumb ass was to be the ass carrying lunches and supplies and to stay dumb.

The draugr had been cleared out, burned, and ashes reburied in a special ceremony conducted by the Priestess of Arkay from Windhelm. Traps had been disabled and were being studied. The dais where the Eye had been found had some of the interesting script that they were still struggling to identify and decipher. The three elven masters agreed that none of them could see any familiar words. "Does it have to be words? Couldn't it be theoretical math symbolism?" asked Curtis. Tolfdir glared at him and he decided that the word wall in the next chamber was calling to him.

He took his time setting out the contents of the picnic basket. There wasn't anything to warm up or cool down, all the food was in enchanted containers that kept their contents at the perfect temperature.

"Baladas and Calcelmo agree that the two likeliest places to find such similar symbolism are nigh impossible to get to," said Edd, formerly "Fast Eddie" Theman from the Morrowind game. The dunmer smiled at him and sat on the trunk beside Curtis and also looked at the word wall. "Calcelmo says the sacred archives of the Sunbirds of Alinor, ancient explorers who flew ships into Aetherius, are firmly under control of the Thalmor high command and none but them have access. Baladas says such formulations might be found in the personal laboratories of Sotha Sil in the Clockwork City, the portal to which no one knows. If the dwemer had such knowledge, we've yet to find any written evidence. Their peculiar powers of the Calling, their mind links, probably made physical recording of knowledge unnecessarily redundant and not worth the effort.

"What made you think of mathematics instead of words?"

Curtis shrugged. "What else is there? You got normal speech, you got magic speech. And a smartass scientist and story writer stated something like, 'any sufficiently advanced technology is just magic to others.' Something like that."

"This writer..."

"Uh. Asimov, I think."

"Imperial?"

"Foundation and Empire, yeah." Curtis got up and went to the word wall, splaying his hands over the gouged surface. "An incredible power device is found in Saarthal. No one knows who created it or who placed it here. Now we find evidence of dwemer nearby. And the dwemer like esoteric and forbidden knowledge. I mean, they even built a scanner to read and record an Elder Scroll; like, watching an eclipse through a pin-hole to observe without being blinded. We just need to get in there, to whatever's under Skytemple Ruin, and find out if it's just a, a trade settlement or something more. How is the Eye related? Because the dwemer source all their power from geothermal which the Eye isn't. The ayleid sourced planar and daaedric which the Eye isn't, I think. Not sure 'bout that one 'cuz I don't know squat about Ayleids."

"The Eye was before my arrival," said Edd. "Also before yours. Tolfdir only speaks of it because you brought it up. How do you know of this mystery device? How can you speak so certainly of its power derivation? And what is this about an Elder Scroll?"

"Shit." Curtis double fist-bumped his own skull. "Sorry. Tolfdir's right; I really should shut up more."

Edd surprised him by laughing. "So you're another one with a secret life and inconstant past." Curtis was afraid he'd continue probing but the other seemed to prefer filling his plate. They made small talk about the excavation work. Curtis tried to recall as many info bits he could about Edd Theman.

The game was Elder Scrolls 3: Morrowind. Fast Eddie. If the player pursued the quest to join House Telvanni, you eventually rise to the rank of Spellwright and before you can go any further you have to recruit a Mouth to handle your politics while you go about your more important duties of being a wizard. When you ask the other Mouths in the council chamber for recommendations, they point you to Fast Eddie or Eddie the Rat. You find Eddie hiding out in Balmora. He's a bit of a disgrace for having left House Telvanni to join the outlander Mages Guild of the Empire. If you ask Blades Spymaster Caius Cosades about Edd, he'll let you know Edd has been or is an information source of theirs about House Telvanni. Why Eddie wants to be someone's Mouth isn't really known; he just dreams of being one. He can be sent on jobs once recruited.

Edd back then was a sorcerer and lawman of the House. Common Destruction practitioner. Curtis couldn't imagine what the mer went through between then and now that turned him from Destruction to Mysticism. He wanted to ask him more about the Nerevarine, but when he tried vague questions hinting of his interest, Edd was quick to shut down. Curtis could understand that. You find out your boss is the great hero of prophecy and once he does his job of killing off the false gods and the great demon, leaving your civilization leaderless and without gods, he hightails it the fuck outta there just before you get hit by a meteor and the gates of hell open up. Kinda like that evil fairy godmother's song in that Shrek movie. "_Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where's the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?_" (Don't hit me, Azura, I really don't mean to say you're an evil fairy godmother! Just a daedric one.)

The others joined them for the late lunch. The subject shifted to the word wall and the nord prophesy of the Dragonborn, the current dragon crisis, and then, of course, to the Dragonborn herself, the Archimage. A brilliant but erratic mage was the picture Tolfdir painted. Of course, the thu'um was an incredible power but the Archimage was not interested in definitive, rigorous studies of her innate dragon power. She found it difficult to take a calm researcher's position when her dragon hunting duties kept her in constant travel and she knew firsthand the destruction the dragons left in their wake. She was also a hard person to keep in one place for any length of time to work up or work through studies.

Baladas wanted to know how she traveled. By foot and horse and carriage? He was appalled. Neloth, her sponsor, may consider her only a hireling in his House and treat her like a lackey only fit to run errands, but she is Dragonborn and Archimage of Winterhold and therefore deserves special consideration if for no other reason that she now also represents House Telvanni. So he would take it upon himself to teach her the basic skills of levitation, teleportation, and recall though it galled him to do Neloth any favors even indirectly.

Although teleportation, he admitted that it would be a bit difficult in Skyrim in any case because of the lack of location beacons. He certainly couldn't find any. If she wanted to reinvest in teleportation magic, it was going to be a large job of re-establishing a network of beacons. The strongest of the ancient Skyrim beacons that he could sense was in Windhelm, but it had a strong warning mark there that safety had been compromised.

Candlehearth Hall, Curtis immediately thought. The magical, ever-burning candle the building was named after was what remained of the ancient wayshrine. Yeah, you'd teleport right into the main fireplace and into a hall full of anti-magic nords. He'd let Tolfdir know that later and Tolfdir could tell Baladas why using that location to teleport into was a really crappy idea.

Yeah. The Dragonborn really needed fast travel instead of just riding her magic skeleton horse between locations no matter how fast and untiring it was. The skeleton horse was new to Curtis who figured this was another game mod feature to the Vampire and Dawnguard factions he'd only just recently learned about. Without fast travel, it was no wonder it was five years and counting since Alduin reappeared and the Dragonborn was still nowhere near being able to take him down. Reality, baby. Hoofing it in real time around Skyrim to gather Words and experience and skills wasn't any sort of easy, speedrun game. No running from Winterhold to Windhelm in a day. That was at least a week of travel on foot provided you're in fit condition, minimally encumbered, and your average walking speed was 3.0 to 3.5 miles an hour; and then you walked sun-up to sun-down, ate while walking, and only stopped to take a quick squat. And that was also, of course, if you didn't go wandering off the road and you didn't encounter bad weather, bandits, wolves, bears, etc. And here to Labryinthian? Months of travel. Then figure the Dragonborn spent days fighting her way to Morokei and then more months of travel to get back, and also presuming she hadn't taken any injury during the battle that needed days of recovery.

And in all that time poor Mirabelle and Tolfdir kept the College together while Ancano sucked in more power and Archimage Aren was in a coma. And still in his universe Mirabelle got gypped and got killed. She had been shielding Tolfdir as he again interfered with the power transfer from the Eye to Ancano as he had done between the Eye and the draugr lord in Saarthal. One of many interferences to slow down Ancano until the Dragonborn could return. Only by then, Ancano had finally detected their interference, had lashed out, and she'd taken the fatal brunt of it. Holding long enough for the College to be evacuated before her shielding collapsed and she'd gone up in flames from the power of the Eye.

"Mathematics is a very good deduction," said Baladas, turning to look at Curtis. "From what I've read of Urag's notes (Oh, shit!) You made mention of 'atomic energy,' can you explain more of that?"

"Uh, no," said Curtis, glancing uncertainly at Tolfdir's expressionless mask. "Not my area of expertise. That kind of math has nothing to do with what I do. I build houses and offices, not worlds." Tolfdir's ice-blue eyes got icier. Shit. It was gonna be another bad lecture after this.

"What notes are these?" asked Calcelmo. Baladas just smiled smugly drawing a displeased scowl from the other.

"Curtis," said Tolfdir, "is our local idiot savant, Calcelmo. His name, as you may have noted, is not dunmer. We believe he's had too close an acquaintance with Sheogorath because of his delusion of having lived another life and, perhaps, Hermaeus Mora because of his unusual breadth of knowledge while displaying appalling ignorance in many other aspects. We have been documenting many of his ramblings. Many of his terminologies are confusing and take some time to correlate. I believe his use of 'atomic' refers to aetherius energy."

"Maybe,' said Calcelmo thoughtfully. "But it is a unique phrasing and may have some significance of structure that reflects an approach that may be worth considering in light of his current offerings to this College and its pursuit of knowledge. May I be allowed to see some of these documents?"

Tolfdir shook his head and apologetically said, "At the moment, we are limiting access. The raw data needs a great deal of effort to sort and analyze. It's easier to talk to Curtis. And that in itself can be confusing enough. Like Apocrypha, it is too easy to get distracted and lost." Calcelmo was clearly not happy with that, but accepted Tolfdir's authority on the matter.

Curtis gave his best village idiot's grin and excused himself to deliver the supplies he'd pack-muled in for the other researchers in other parts of the excavation. As he delivered supplies, he mulled over that end battle in Saarthal. How had Tolfdir broken the link between the Eye and the draugr? Why did he fail to break that link between the Eye and Ancano? One easy explanation that Ancano's interaction with the Eye had been as a living intellligence while the draugr was a dead, lesser wizard with a powerful staff and the amulet piece he'd helped murder his father for. (Question: why did the nords bury an evil wizard and his followers in a chamber holding a mysterious power device they'd buried down here to keep it away from the snow elves? Had they already forgotten the Eye was down there when they chucked the bodies in hundreds of years later?)

Anyway... Tolfdir. When he was doing what he was doing he probably was flying on instinct, like a combat veteran, a trained athelete. Don't think about it; just do. How fun was it going to be (and how mad it would make the old man) to set Baladas and Calcelmo on him to reverse engineer whatever he did to find out why his tactics worked with the Eye, and therefore get some clue as to how the Eye worked. Nothing messes your stride and makes you self-concious like people poking at you and asking you to self-analyze why you did what you did.


	9. Chapter 9 Tales in the Deep

_A/N: (1) Chapter 7 correction. Mistwatch Keep is in Eastmarch, not the Rift._

_(2) Old question re: 300-yr lifespan, found the reference, but it was actually on Bosmer, UESP pages. So I guess lifespans shorten the further away from primary Aldmeri stock? Altmer longest and betmer shortest? That's my overall impression._

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Tales in the Deep**

_DOV-AH-KIIIN!_

Whoa! 400 feet underwater and that sonic boom still shook his bones. He hated to think what it felt like at ground zero. And by the timbre, he'd bet this month's College stipend that Paarthurnax the Dragon was shouting along with the Graybeards. Wonder what's up?

Nothing that had anything to do with him, that's for sure. He went back to his knitting. Can't ever have too many scarves in Winterhold. Besides, it was a simple, calming physical meditation that kept the nervous animal part of his mind busy and left the rest for him to contemplate things like deadlines, training schedules, student evaluations, and adjusting lessons plans for the rest of the week.

And he had six hours to kill in this decompression bubble.

He'd been working 800 under with the Windhelm argonians demonstrating and testing the new staves. One was a breaker stave that used explosive bursts of fire and force to break rocks. The other was a drill stave made of two parts. The swappable tip half was studded with industrial-grade diamonds, the other half was the handle and power source. Both tools were deadly out of the water, the rock breakers would just explode and the drills would have a friction melt-down and explode into molten metal and diamond bits. It was only the subzero temp and depth pressure that made the tools practical. They still needed to work some kinks out with the operator safety gear, like, eye protection from the light and shrapnel, ear protection for percussive blasts, thick, padded armoring with safety anchors, again because of blast waves... It wasn't easy. Too bad there were no argonians mages currently at the College. Oh, there were students this year, but an experienced mage interested in serious research and development in construction techniques was hard to find. They'd advertised, but most of the argonian mages who'd answered were more the destructive/couldn't make it as a bandit type. They'd put out some inquiries with the mage groups in Black Marsh, but so far nothing. While the work was interesting, being required to live and work this deep in arctic seas was the deal breaker.

So he made do with J'zargo's help. Curtis drafted the designs and explained the concepts and desired results to J'zargo who then had the really difficult part of constructing the destruction spells and controls for non-mages. He also couldn't pre-test the spells because they were too dangerous until at the correct depth. J'zargo had to wait at the surface. The current deep water drugs didn't work with khajiit and one cat, even if he was willing, wasn't worth risking. Good news was these test staves worked perfectly. The cat now could boast of being a master of constructive destruction. He just had to produce 12 more pairs in the next two weeks. He was going to be one exhausted, grumpy cat.

Money was getting critical and the tools were needed for the argonians digging through the ruins of old Winterhold for lost treasures.

He looked up from his knitting as two dunmer entered the decompression station. They were on the home fabrication team and working on taking measurements and making todo lists for pod modifications for the argonians' comfort. They grumbled at the six hours. Curtis didn't bother explaining to them that without the magic potions and the College medics stationed in each bubble, initial, unassisted decompression and natural elimination time an individual's body needed to process out the low-oxygen assist drugs could be three days to a week.

He also didn't bother telling them just how depressing a non-magical decompression chamber could be. Here, in this pod, there was adequate room for up to a dozen people, comfortable cots, an alchemy area for the medic, a mini-kitchen with magic heaters to reheat meals, shelves that held books, cards and games, a shower room to remove salt and deep-sea slime, complementary robes to wear while the non-argonian diving suits enchanted to compensate for pressure was magically dry cleaned, and even a separate toilet area. In all consideration, these pods were fuckin' five-star fantastic.

The next five in were argonians and one dunmer. Drains-the-Swamp had been showing his great granduncle Brand-Shei the work sites.

+—+—+—+—+—+

"Brandyl Tenvanni is the name I was given," said Brand-Shei, "according to the book Helsette Faro found for me at the wreck of the Pride of Tel Vos. Now that I had a family name, the Temple's Kin Finders located Folayna, my father's sister. She had been doing business in Blackreach when the invasion occurred. She'd taken that assignment in his place so that my father could remain with my mother during the last weeks of her pregnancy. She and my father had been in charge of collecting port fees and taxes."

"Wow. That's great," said Curtis. He remembered the book. It had been Lymdrenn Tenvanni's last thoughts as he held his newborn son while hearing the tramping of the argonian invaders overhead looking for dunmer to kill. "How'd she take the news that you were raised by Argonians?" At Brand-Shei's hesitation he quickly added, "Sorry. Too personal and not really my business, I know. Old-world prejudices and life-span differences can be hard to get past." Dammit. It was a pain having to pretend he didn't know anything about Brand-Shei. Game people weren't always the same as real people and the book meant for Brand-Shei may have read different.

"We're... negotiating," Brand-Shei admitted. "I can appreciate her anger. As you say, life-spans... It's said matters of the heart knows no time, so what is true for love is also true for hate."

"And maybe some guilt," said Curtis, staring slightly cross-eyed at nothing. "Tel Vos was a slave trade port even if Master Aryon was instituting some liberal changes on the treatment and care of slaves. And your family, being port officials, would certainly be targeted by the argonians. Didn't matter if they weren't active in the trade as raiders or transporters, they enabled the business. Sure, the argonians killed your family, but maybe there's survivor's guilt also in play. It was just business, handling the port paperwork for the slavers, but still... And maybe your family had argonian slaves. Did they turn on their owners or were they loyal enough to plead with their avenging people to spare the life of their owner's newborn child while so many others died in the invasion? Would your aunt be second-guessing all her past interactions with the house slaves?"

"Maybe," said Brand-Shei, his dry voice cutting through Curtis's free-floating thoughts to crash him back to the present moment. Brand-Shei's expression was hard to read. Drains-The-Swamp and the other argonians gathered around were staring at him like only lizards could. Fuck. Curtis felt like a stupid, chirping cricket that had hopped into the wrong terrarium.

"Worth consideration though. I wouldn't know about house slaves.

"I still have no idea why I survived. My adoptive father, Salish, had a large fishing boat and he was drafted to bring the soldiers to Vvardenfell; he was not obliged to take part in the land battles. When he returned war party home to Black Marsh, he found me while inspecting the deck after they had disembarked. Don't know who brought me aboard, kept me quiet and fed during the journey back, but there I was. No one would have thought any worse of him if he'd tossed me over the side with the trash, but he took me home with him and Flowers-on-Water, tired from laying her clutch of three eggs, was willing to adopt me as well."

"Wow. You lucked out big time." Curtis scratched at a non-existence itch at the back of his neck and wondered how to change the subject. Fortunately, Brand-Shei felt the same.

"Your turn, ser. From whence comes your not-very-dunmer name?" asked Brand-Shei.

"Oh... Well, weirdly enough it's the only one I know. See, I'm told that before I came to Skyrim I was in Raven Rock and there I was known as 'Slitter.' Some kind of bodyguard to an orc loan-shark, er, money-lender. He got killed and Slitter left before he could be next. On the way, the ship sunk and he drowned. That's when I came in. See, my first memory is swimming up in ice-water to avoid drowning. I knew my name was Curtis Johnson. What I didn't know was that I was apparently a dunmer. I was damned confused. I didn't know how I'd gotten where I was or how I came to be dunmer. The day Drains here rescued me was my first day on this world.

"Yeah, the folk at the College asked me in all sorts of ways if I'd pissed off Uncle Sheo so much that he'd kicked me off the Shivering Isles. Couldn't find any trace of daedric magic on me though. Heh, they're certain it's aedric magic. If I'm insane, well, then at least I'm so far into it that I can fake sanity. Makes sense?"

Brand-Shei managed a faint, amused smile. "Maybe if I drank skooma, friend, but even then I doubt it. You say you were surprised you were dunmer. Were you human originally then? Is necromancy suspected? But, no, not if they think the Divines are involved."

"Uh, yeah. Big mystery is who and why. So until I find out, Drains here was nice enough to give me a job."

"Worth every scalebit," said Drains, hiss-chuckling. "Even if half the time no one can understand what you say."

"Yeah, but I produce, right?"

"Yesss."

"What the Hist is that?" exclaimed the lizard nearest the door to the entry room.

All eyes turned to the creature in the doorway. It almost looked like an altmer, tall enough but the eyes were white, the hair colorless, and the skin had a translucent jelly quality that rippled in such a way that Curtis could imagine it disappearing in water like a chameleon would in leaves or a squid against corral. It wore armor reminiscent of falmer but of lighter, more delicate appearing chitin. It was also female. She didn't appear hostile though her right hand cautiously rested on a belt knife and her other hovered near the knife strapped to her left thigh.

"Is that a fish elf?" asked Curtis. "I read about them in one of the Wolf Queen books."

"Maormer," said Brand-Shei. "But what is one doing so far north? They only live in tropical waters."

"Windhelm?" the fish elf rasped.

They all pointed upward in a southwestern direction.

"Go back along the coast and first large, wide freshwater river from inland that tastes of ice melt with no ash. Swim up that. Windhelm is a heavily fortified city," said Drains in common speech. "Be wary. The nords are not friendly to mer. It is also spawning season and many predators along the banks. If you go visit my kind in the deeper pods," he pointed down in the proper direction, "they are recent come from Windhelm and can give you better directions and advice."

The strange female nodded, apparently understanding, put on her helmet (which looked like a jewel-crusted octopus, the body bag fitting over her head, with stomach-turning tentacles writhing and locking onto hooks on her body armor), and left.

"Now that," said Curtis, "is one deep sea mermaid." He abruptly rushed to the nearest window. "I wonder if she rode a waterdragon here? It's way too far to just swim." A couple of argonians rushed to the entry room to dive back into the water for a better look.

"Ohmygods! That's a fucking megladon!" Exterior lights gave them the brief, ghostly image of a shark bigger than their bubble. It had large bundles strapped to its sides and at least three riders. It angled downward for a dive then disappeared into the deep with a seemingly lazy wiggle of its body.

"Oh, man, I wish they could've stuck around more," Curtis mourned. "I mean, that diving gear she wore! Just imagine the enchantments on them. We sure could use 'em."

"I'm more wondering what business a maormer has in Windhelm," said Brand-Shei.

"What was that book you were talking about that mentioned maormer?" Drains asked Curtis.

"Oh, it's part of that book series about Queen Potema who was trying to make herself the Empress. There was one tale where Potema royally screwed over the fish elf king."

"And literally," chuckled Brand-Shei. He knew the story and entertained everyone the next hour by recounting the story both in common and in Jel for two argonians who didn't speak common very well.


	10. Chapter 10 Owl Pellets

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Owl Pellets**

He was falling and then he was drowning. Now he was waking in a cold sweat and cursing loud enough to wake the other sleepers in the decompression bubble who grumbled sleepily at him before going back to sleep. Curtis sat up in his bunk and the station medic hurried to him to check for any bad drug reactions. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a nightmare," he reassured him. The medic wouldn't give him any sleep drugs because his body didn't need anymore drugs when it was busy processing out the diving drugs so the medic used instead a touch of magic to relax him and help him get back to sleep.

"Done with the dramatics? Can we talk now?"

Curtis frowned at the dunmer dressed like Dr. Who, Number Four, leaning against the iconic blue police box. The eerie, original 60's test-tone oscillation calibration waves, spliced and rewoven as music floated in the atmosphere. The idle question, "Are we in sync yet?" drifted through his mind.

He stared rudely at the dunmer. Familiar yet no name came to mind. "Do I know you?" he asked at last. He had that familiar knotted beard that Curtis associated with wizards and other "old" people in the Game. As for hair, this one had sides buzzed close leaving only a strip on the top to the back. It gave him the predatory look of a hawk.

"Not really," the other replied in so familiar tones. "You only used the College when it came time to find the Dragon Scroll and enrolled only to get the Gaulder amulet piece in Saarthal. Your brother would know me right away."

Click. "Savos Aren. Didn't recognize you out of uniform."

Savos acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. Then he smiled slightly and flicked the ends of the long, multi-colored scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and shoulders.

"Why the fuck did you do this to me?" Curtis roared.

Savos looked at him coolly. "Would you rather be dead? The effort to tunnel through dimensions is great and can only be maintained briefly. The window to catch a soul as it transitions from life to death is even briefer. Of the hundreds dying within the timeframe we had to work in, your soul was the only one that matched our basic specifications."

"And Slitter, was he the only one you could find in your 'timeframe?'"

"The only one suitable in Winterhold for your needs, so yes.'"

Curtis pivoted away and examined their surroundings to give himself time to think. In this little dream world they were on the roof of the College. The Countenance building.

"You said 'we.' Who's 'we', kemosabe?"

"That would be Jhunal, the Atmoran God of Wisdom and Knowledge. Jhunal the Hunter of Truths. Most of the world mistakenly thinks he's just another name for Julianos."

"Huh. And the owl?"

"His avatar."

"Oh, right. Avatars. So Jhunal's the owl, Kyne's the hawk, and... What are the others?"

"Of the ancient nord pantheon, The Fox is Shor and then there is Tsun the Bear, Stuhn the Whale, Dibella the Moth, Mara the Wolf, Orkey the Snake, and, of course, Alduin the Dragon.

"Enough questions now, Curtis, and let me give you the answers you initially demanded. It's time to bite to the center of the Tootsie Pop. Yes, you get a second life because we've chosen you to help others who are getting their second chance at life. You need to get into Skytemple. The Sleepers have overslept and their beds will be their coffins if you do not get to them in time. You've done well thus far — you have the tools and accrued the necessary support. In the name of Jhunal now go, Pooh bear, and use that considerable wit of yours to bring the lost back from the darkness.

"Or, as those in your world would say, time to get your ass in gear, Champion, and bring it."

Curtis woke. The challenge, "Bring it," echoing faintly in the back of his mind. He vaguely recalled images of a dollar bill with wings flying away. Funny thing, he could've sworn the Illuminati eye in the pyramid on the back of the bill was glaring at him.

Then he frowned. The scarf he'd been knitting before he went to sleep... He could've sworn he'd stowed it properly in his waterproof dive bag but now it was wrapped around his neck. Well, at least the knitting needles had been pulled out before going on his neck.

+—+—+—+—+—+—+

"Why this sudden interest in an Atmoran god the nords don't even bother to remember?" asked Urag.

"Aw, c'mon, Urag. You know I told you from the beginning that when I died in my world I was almost hit by an owl and I heard it name-dropping 'Savos Aren.' I'm starting to have dreams again. Not the dying part anymore, thankfully, but owls. Owls and Savos, or that particular voice actor, telling me it's time to wake up or some such.

"Now from all this I'm somehow getting the feeling that while Jhunal was a non-element in the Game I'm familiar with he's not unimportant to whatever's going on now. There's a story here and maybe I need to hear it and I think you know the connection. Mind clueing me in? How did Aren die this time? Where does the Owl God fit in?"

"It has to do with Solstheim," Urag finally admitted. "I know you get past dreams of Slitter's life. Have you ever had any dreams about working on temple? Of watching others working on a temple? Do these words sound familiar, 'Here in his shrine that they have forgotten?'"

Curtis scoured his hazy memories. It was hard enough recalling factual pieces about Slitter's life. But to recall the man's dreams?

"The zombie dreams. You're dreaming and then you wake up, knowing you were having a nightmare, and then you wake up again confused as hell because you realized you were dreaming of waking up from a nightmare. Yeah, I've had that montage." Those dreams had, in fact, gotten so bad recently that he'd resorted to sleeping potions and magic-enforced meditations with Colette or Drevin to straighten out his dream-deprived psyche.

"Mon—? Nevermind. Give it some thought," said Urag. "Before I can tell you anything I have to clear it with some people. You could probably figure out some of the tale just by talking to any Solstheim people here but the answers you want, well, some of them are confidential and need permission to be released.

"But if Savos Aren starts telling you things before I or Tolfdir can, tell us before you act, got it? You don't want to go crossing the plans of the wrong people."

"Seems to me I'll upset them if I haven't done my job once they get here." Where in hell did that come from? Urag scowled at him and Curtis could only look confused. He shrugged helplessly.

"Hey, so you really think it's Aren talking to me in my dreams?" He asked uncertainly.

Urag grunted. "Yeah. He gave his soul and life to pave the way for Jhunal to help the Archimage in her battle against the First Dragonborn and Hermaeus Mora. She took out the other Dragonborn and Jhunal, Hermaeus Mora. So now there's an aedric god ruling a daedric realm. We've been trying to determine how this changes the rules of the Aedra refraining from direct interference. Evidently, Jhunal is changing that rule. You would know better than anyone about that, Curtis.

"So I suppose this means I don't need to ask our own ghost talker to confirm Aren's ghost. It's obvious he's back and in Jhunal's service."

"Ghost talker?" Curtis perked up. "You mean you got an actual one here? Who?"

"One of those people I need permission from before I can tell you. Now go away, Curtis, so I can start writing to people for those permissions."

+—+—+—+—+—+—+

"So your dreams tell you there are live people inside Skytemple?" Colette refreshed her mug of heated spiced wine from an enchanted ewer then refilled Curtis's mug. She looked over the ruins now backlit against the setting sun.

"Kinda live. I'm thinking cryo sleep. Uh, an induced deep sleep and then their body temperatures are lowered just above frozen so that there's no cell damage. Maybe a heartbeat or two every few months."

"That seems unnecessarily inefficient," said Colette. "A soul gem powered preservation spell of some sort would be better. Perhaps one to preserve the body and a specially prepared one to hold the soul and then triggered to release or return the soul with a waking spell."

"Yeah." Curtis thought about that possibility. "Suspended animation" was just a generic, imprecise term. But now that he really had to consider it, how would that be effected? If it was magic based, could the College handle magic from another era? He wondered about that. Although he only played the vanilla versions of Elder Scrolls 4 and 5, he knew the skills and magics and menu system were radically different between the two.

How old was the magic in Skytemple? First Era? Older? The First Era lasted nearly 3000 years. Dwemer disappeared just short of the first thousand years. Shalidor founded the College in the First Era. The Falmer Holocaust started before the First Era and finished sometime in the first century. Was the temple built before all that? Who would have built it? The falmer since they were the original inhabitants?

No, the building was in the nord style. If dwemer were involved, as evidenced by the brass-like metal of the underwater pipes, then the whole structure was hidden in the ground and likely the nords, looking to bury someone important, merely built on top of an area they perhaps sensed was an area of strong magic.

All he knew about the falmer was from the Skyrim game. Blind goblins infesting caves and dwemer ruins; enslaved, blinded, and twisted by the drugs the dwemer forced them to take.

He pondered the devolution of an entire race, how it could be accomplished in less than a thousand years. That would be, what, only two or three generations of mer? That couldn't be enough time unless there was another factor beyond drugs.

"Collette, remember that discussion we had a while back about Restoration magic can only return a body to its original, healthy state? What if the original state was genetically damaged, say, by drugs affecting a baby during the gestational period. Like thalomide babies? Possibly the mother's body would have aborted a damaged fetus, but what if healing magic was used to, um, to stabilize the damaged creature and it survived, damage intact, to birth, to breed?"

* * *

_**GalacticHalfling**: No shark mods. This group aren't great sorcerers to be able to control a mighty sea serpent so they'll have to settle for a shark. * I remember as a child first reading about "raptures of the deep," the condition of nitrogen narcosis. Cute illustration opening the concept, a guy in an old fashion diving suit trying to kiss the mermaid that was embracing him. Said mermaid in reality was a large octopus and her puckered lips were the beak. Eh. I figure "story time" + "tales" + elves in a decompression pod = "why not a bad pun." These maormer aren't exactly on on a shopping expedition._


	11. Chapter 11 Skytemple-One

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

**Chapter 11: Skytemple-One**

He had his exploratory team. J'zargo and, mind-blowingly, Mage-Lord Baladas who demanded to come along since it was his money they were using that was funding the team and support crew. Plus, if they did find something dangerous, he could teleport them out to the location beacon he'd set up in College courtyard.

The fourth member was going to be...

"Master Curtis. Master Colette told me I'd find you here. I'm Ilya. I'll be joining your group into the Skytemple Ruins."

Curtis put down the basting brush and cocked his head as he looked the nord woman up and down. She was of average height, had a power-lifter's build, and was dressed in Restoration novice's robe. She looked to be in her 40's and held herself like an ex-military or law-enforcer. Her tone was crisp and no-nonsense.

"You will, will you? Who says?" he challenged.

The woman smiled humorlessly. "It was an option? I had a long review of my past with Masters Tolfdir and Urag and then they gave me this as my first assignment in the College to help pay for my lessons the rest of the year. I was not aware that I had to seek your permission."

"Oh. Okay," said Curtis, backing down immediately. The College, Tolfdir rather, had strict conditions on this project. Primary was that they wanted someone "sensible" on the team. Evidently, Ilya was their choice. Curtis had never heard of her before, had never seen her even casually around town before.

"You're new here, aren't you though?"

"I arrived a month ago. I'd just mustered out of my post in The Reach. The Reach, if you haven't heard, has left both the Empire and Skyrim. Well, Jarl Igmund is still Jarl there, but he may be the last one."

"Damn, the rumors are true then. The civil war is over."

"More or less." The woman shrugged, her expression just tired. "Unless the Stormcloak and the Emperor can't come to an agreement or someone succeeds in killing either of them. Howsoever it goes, I'm out of it now. My last big battle was against the Volkihar Vampires. After going through their dungeons and mercy killing the poor souls there, I decided to come home and learn something else beyond the sword. I'd already been practicing as a field medic for my camp; thought I'd learn more at the College. The dying is mostly over. Healing..." she shrugged.

"A month you say? In Restorations? I can't claim to know everybody at the College, but I don't recall seeing you around and though Colette's students are a minority bunch they've all been working as medics for the Breakwater Project."

"I was accepted into the College this past week. I applied a month ago but couldn't pass the entrance challenge. Used most of my muster-out pay to buy the challenge spell, buy the magic boosting potions to be able to power the spell, and paying an apprentice to tutor me on basic power sensing, collecting, and focusing. Earned extra coin while I was doing that doing field patrol work for the Winterhold Guards."

"Going at it the hard way. The argonians would have hired you as a medic even if you weren't yet a College student. Basic first aid, triage, monitoring supplies — that kind of stuff."

She sighed, giving him a glimpse of how tired she was. "I had thought of that and, yes, it would have been a good way to prove my intentions and maybe get free tutoring from the the Healer students there. But... I may be retired from active service in the Stormcloaks, I still have obligations that have required me to travel between here and Windhelm. Working the southern patrols, even military courier jobs, better suited my needs.

"But this job, if I survive, pays off in a year of free tuition and supplies to learn. It's not my goal to make a master healer. I just need to know enough."

Curtis turned back to basting the ribs. Sliced off a piece of warmed fatty meat and walked over to the wall where the turnspit wheel spun and the wheel's axle moved the slender chain that turned the spit. "Good boy. That's enough." The short-legged little dog briskly trotting therein for the past two hours yipped good-naturedly as Curtis put a hand on the wheel to slow it to a halt. He then reached up, scratched it behind the ears and fed it the meat. Ilya helped him unload the ribs spit and load a new spit with flat cages holding various vegetables. Another treat to the dog and it resumed trotting, turning the vegetables over the fire and Curtis sprinkled spices.

"How'd you get involved with this project?" he asked Ilya.

"Master Colette. She wanted to know my past experiences. Must have found something because she made the Master of Wizards and the Librarian come talk with me."

"You have experience exploring dwemer ruins?"

"Not specifically, no. I've been inside them but wasn't required to explore them thoroughly. Hunting bandits, deserters, temporary storage — those were usually confined to the upper levels. Rarely deep enough to encounter the big metal monsters or falmer."

"But chasing forsworn and briarhearts and hagravens through their tunnels is just as dangerous," said Curtis, grinning.

"And the occasional vampire, yes, sera, I think so."

"So what have you been told about his project? Can't be too much, and I have to say I'm a bit peeved you got shoved in at the last minute. I've had to refuse some good people because Tolfdir told me I had to reserve a spot for someone they chose."

"I've been told very litte, sera, but there's plenty of talk to be heard in town. A hidden dwemer place. A possible connection to ancient Saarthal and an ancient power that I'm told nearly destroyed what's left of Winterhold.

"I was told that my job is to be the professional sentry to two machine-mad scholars and a cat that's too fond of setting things on fire. My instruction was to make sure everyone remembered that this was exploration scouting first, research and study later. Burning the place down, much later and only after much consideration."

Curtis chuckled. "Oohhhh, yeeeaaaahhh. Tolfdir knows us so well.

"Well, the team is meeting for final review before tomorrow. You're staying for dinner of course. Beef ribs with chicken or salmon soups on the side. Oh, that pot over there is ashhopper curry. Well, I call it 'curry' but the spices are from Morrowind and not quite the same. Ashhopper's like a giant locust. Baladas's request; he's not fond of most of Skyrim's cattle or game meats. Ashhopper's gamier and a bit stringier than mudcrab."

+—+—+—+—+—+—+

Whoa. She'd said she was a Stormcloak soldier. Then she shows up in an officer's full spiky leather and bearskull helm and cloak. Her rank? Not really any imperial-style ranking, she reminded him, maybe combat category given to her just after Volkihar and just before formal retirement. Stormblade.

The other surprise was her chosen equipment, a dwemer shield and two tools. Familiar tools made of non-conductive dwemer metal. The first was a construction digging bar, a long, spear-like creation with a flat pry-bar piece on one end and the other end was a two-tine fork, one tine straight and sharp for digging and gouging and breaking into cracks while the other tine dog-legged to be another point for digging and gouging and leveraging large pieces of wood, rock, or pipes. Her second tool was what he'd known as an emergency gas and water shut-off and pry bar tool.

Dwemer. Of course. Duh. Highly industrial, underground. More, better tools than just game standard hammers, saws, hooks, and weapons.

"Best thing when fighting forsworn," she said. "They use lighting spells. The dwemer stuff just shrugs it right off. Same with fire and ice and chaurus spit. I'd have had the full armor but I couldn't find anybody who could fix and refit it for me. Maybe the orc smiths in Markarth, but they're ex-Legion and probably wouldn't have been interested in taking the job from me even if I could afford them."

"Try Riften. Balimund at the Scorched Hammer. He's the only one besides Gray-Mane in Whiterun who can get his forge hot enough to handle dwemer metal," Curtis said without thinking.

"Oh? The Skyforge's power is legendary."

"Yeah, but Balimund found—" Curtis bit his tongue in time. That wasn't his secret to give away. "Well, the guy knows his metals."

"Still probably beyond my purse," she sighed dejectedly. "And I'm retired so I really don't need a suit of armor anymore. I'll just polish up what I have and keep it as a souvenir of my fighting days."

"Where'd you serve?"

"I reported to Commander Kottir in the Reach. My primary duty was to work with the team from the Haafingar camp to keep watch on the elves at Northwatch and note activity at the High Rock border."

"Must have been tough watching those elves drag in people accused of Talos-worshipping and not being able to interfere."

"Mm."

Ok, she didn't want to talk about it.

"So did you get your diving gear?"

"This little thing?" She held up a simple gold ring. "I was told this is all I need to keep from drowning and from freezing in the water. Does it also keep your clothes dry when you get out or do you get out wet and freeze in the cold air?"

"Unfortunately, the reality is you still get wet and the heating only works when you're underwater so we gotta pack an extra set of dry clothes in dive bags." She nodded resignedly.

"I suppose it was too good a thing to expect it would somehow keep one's clothes dry."

"Only in game theory," he replied, chuckling. "Here's a heat ring you can have. Standard issue to all the dive teams since most of us don't have nord resistance to cold temperatures. First one's free; any replacements come out of your pocket."

"Of course. Thank you."

Last night, during dinner, Ilya had to repeat her history and abrupt assignment to the mission to Baladas and J'zargo. J'zargo was doubtful that a mere soldier and barely novice-level Restorations student would be of much use. The mage-lord was more practical in his view of the usefulness of juggernauts. His questions also revealed the nord soldier had a surprising open-minded view of other races and a sensible appreciation of magic. He was also able to elicit a bit more information about the battle against the Volkihar Vampires, an important turning point in understandings between Stormcloaks and the Empire, between nords and dunmer, and nords and magic-users.

Curtis dearly wanted to hear more details but Ilya was more determined to hear about her new assignment at Skytemple. Mission first, history later she firmly reminded Curtis.

The prep team had been working since dawn to clear the last of the rubble from the door they'd found by following the giant tubes back the base of Skytemple rock. That part had been obscured by the thickest part of the glowing barnacle bed and then a thick wall of rock and sediment from the Collapse and years of later earth tremors. Digging had been slow and tedious and starved of money until Baladas had put out the money to pay for dedicated teams to work the dig.

Curtis had already been inside to the room the door had opened into. As he'd expected, it was an airlock. The door to the interior had been damaged and that had allowed the sea into the rest of the level which appeared, to the limited reach of their lights at the time, to be all pipes and shelves of tools and machine parts. He expected any other rooms on that level to be the same. Maintenance stuff. If they were lucky, maybe they'd find some sort of pump system that was still active that could clear out the water. Tough part would be recognizing such a system and that was all on him unless Baladas had come across such in his long-ago studies. Oh, well, if he couldn't recognize any on this first go-around, he already had a couple dunmer engineers who were eager to explore and who might recognize magic-powered pumping systems from their work on Vivec's city.

Now they were in. Ilya, weighted down by her armor, walked the floor. They floated behind her. It was left to her to provide the main muscle to shove or move obstructions with her digging bar. Curtis and J'zargo rough-mapped with an oil-sticks onto wax-coated parchments. Precise measurements would be done by a later team.

Next level up was also flooded but the machines were different here. The area was thick with wiring and panels that glowed and winked. To Curtis it was like swimming through a server farm. The water tingled unpleasantly. Here Curtis was reminded of that TV show, Stargate. Funny how so many futuristic shows used crystals in their computer and power systems. Except here... Here, these were tiny soulgems. Small ones. A lot of mice — he hoped they were mice — were sacrificed to fill 'em.

It scared and saddened him to think how easy it had been for the dwemer to move onto their fellow mer when the opportunity came. The snow mer. Bigger gems, bigger works, enough to dream of making a brass god.

_That_ song haunted him as they swam after Ilya who was visible by the enchanted light bauble attached to the shield she wore on her back. _"And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made. And the sign lashed out its warning, and the words that it was forming, and the sign said..."_

Third level was only half-filled. They were at sea level. Conference rooms and work areas judging by all the tables and chairs and efforts at decoration. Forges up here were smaller and the tools designed for more delicate works. The forges were offline so they weren't at risk of being steam poached. However, there was heat coming from somewhere so it was pretty tropical.

Curtis saw the etched plaques on the wall. Recognition sparked and everything faded as he rushed between pictures, touching them, and unconsciously muttering, "Shit, shit, really? Aw, shit, unbelievable..." and so on until Baladas, tired of the sludge, gave him a painful zap.

"Explain," he commanded.

"Fuckin' meeting place of the Ancients," said Curtis. "This bunch of gold pictures is your world's screwy periodic table of elements. The silver bunch, if I'm not crazy, are illustrations of string theory. Multiplanes. Alternate dimensions. Honest to god, I really can't explain any better. This is tech magic on a level way above mine. No hadron collider. How did they come up with these without computers? How could they possibly envision all this?"

Baladas frowned and studied the pictures more intently, moving onto copper plates. Those images Curtis had nothing to reference. "Energy patterns," pronounced Baladas. "Aedric, daedric, patterns in Mundus, patterns of aetherius and oblivion." His head swiveled between the images of elements to the patterns, eyes seemed to glow as he made matches in his own comprehension. "You will have to explain to me what you comprehend of — what did you call it? 'String theory?' You are not just speaking of the different planes of Oblivion are you?"

"No. Your world of Mundus, Oblivion, Aetherius are all still of the same enclosed plane of existence. Same house; same bubble of reality. Me, I'm from a different bubble. In the unifying magical-mystical-mathematical M-theory there's the idea that where planes touch, there's a weakness and creatures can actually transfer or slide between planes. Guess that makes me a shadow person. I'm here, but I wasn't ever born into this reality."

"You suggest that you're similar to a vestige as created by Molag Bal."

"Wrong god. And unlike a true vestige, if I die, I don't come back. And I'm not a soulless shell. I'm a soul that got possession of a body that lost its soul."

"Serjo, sera," said Ilya firmly, "this would be fascinating if my ass weren't freezing in the water. I respectfully suggest you pack it and we get back to the business of exploring and mapping this level and then finding if there's anything still alive in this tomb."

_A/N: I still watch reruns of Stargate SG-1. S1E11—The Torment Of Tantalus, was one of the guiding ideas when I started this story line. • Lyrics: "The Sound Of Silence." [Disturbed version/video]_


	12. Chapter 12 Up The Mountain

_Lyrics: D. Gibson, "Climbing Up The Mountain"_

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Up the Mountain**

Next level up, more offices doubling as individual bedrooms and central areas for dining or meetings. Noticeable choices in decor — half were typical dwemer-type wall carvings and ornaments and others favored planters and flowerpots and embroidered tapestries of garden scenes. One room even had a giant terrarrium. The glass was something else. If it had been true glass of melted sand the centuries would have caused it to deform and shatter. This massive thing was still uniform in thickness, no flaws. Transparent ceramics? Transparent aluminum, a.k.a., aluminum oxynitride?

The tropical jungle within was then, what, over 4,000 years old? He was no expert, but Curtis was willing to bet none of the plants inside were local. The terrarium glowed and hummed. Yeah, there were nirnroots in there, both the white and crimson kind. The glowing also came from other fungus in the depths of the moss.

In another room he recognized a whiteboard. The water-soluble ink still stained the surface, but only barely and because of the moisture in the air and because the lighting was artificial and had none of the bleaching effects of true solar light. Baladas wanted to copy the writings and diagrams. Curtis shared his fears. Just breathing on a section he'd gotten close to for inspection had caused some of the pigments to puddle and drip.

Baladas insisted on staying behind in this room to copy the formulas. Curtis was inclinded to agree except that the writer had also drawn what looked to him like a mer in a layered sleep pod with lines at various points that led directly to relevant formulas.

"They've been here since before the First Era; they'll be here when we come back," he said to Baladas. "There's more to explore. And call me crazy, but that," he pointed at the illustrations, "that looks to me like sleeper pods. Did I ever get around to telling you that I've been having dreams from, I guess, my patron god in Apocrypha, the owl god who took over, that there are people still alive down here?"

They all looked at him.

"No, you neglected to mention that," said Baladas. "And what is this about an owl god? Hermeaus Mora _IS_ Apocrypha. The daedric realm are created from the very beings of each Prince. They cannot be separated or dispossessed."

"How about shoved into a closet in their own house while someone else pretends to be the homeowner?" said Curtis.

"Still not possible," Baladas said adamantly. "The Prince can reshape its realm."

Curtis threw up his hands. "Look, I won't argue 'cuz I don't know fuck-all about how Oblivion operates or the biologies of gods. If I was thinking of cheap plot shticks then maybe Tentacle-Brains got knocked out by some young punks with hockey sticks and the Owl God is keeping him comatose. How the fuck should I know? All I know is what they tell me. When we get out, go talk to Urag.

"But back to the point. The late Archimage Savos Aren tells me the sleepers inside will die if we don't get to them in time."

Baladas looked between him and the whiteboard illustration. "You had better be right about this."

"Do I understand this correctly, sera, there are living people somewhere inside this ruin?" asked Ilya levelly.

"So I've been told."

"By a dead man in your dream." She was expressionless and her tone was even pleasant. "So there might still be living dwemer since this place appears to be dwemer built. And there might be falmer since this is likewise before they turned into those twisted, cannibal goblins. And if they are alive and you intend to wake them, how do we talk to them? I doubt they speak imperial common." She turned to Baladas. "Or you, honored serjo, might you know dwemeris?"

"I barely remember chimeris, the language I was born to," Baladas grumbled. "But what I do remember won't help if these dwemer weren't of a generation that were born in Vvardenfell. Of falmeris, I know nothing."

"Calcelmo would probably be able to help there with a writing tablet. Maybe even Senior Researcher Enthir," said Curtis, recalling the Thieves Guild questlines. One of the quests had been to sneak into Calcelmo's study and make a copy of a falmer language tablet so that Enthir could complete a translation of the previous guildmaster's diary. "They've done independent research into the falmer language. And if there's a dwemer here, they probably shared the base written language even if their spoken language might have drifted during the migrations.

"And we don't even know yet the origins of this group. There were dwemer clans that settled and stayed in Skyrim who never bothered with Vvardenfell. If I remember correctly, there were already three great clans in Tamriel before Clan Rourken left Vvardenfell in a snit when King Dumas declared alliance with Nerevar.

"That was the Aetherium Forge quest. Each clan retained an aetherium piece and using the forge required the cooperation of all four clans. Of course, when they got it working, that's when the in-fighting began.

"So let's stick to what we have on hand. Master Baladas, can you read this stuff?"

"Y-yes," said Baladas hesitantly as if startled out of deep thought. "I know the letterforms but the precise meanings escape me. My best guess... Calculations of power decay or fade. Power expenditures to compensate for fluctuations caused by time? Bank failures?" he gestured to various lines then lapsed into thought; frowned as he scoured the writings with new intent. Abruptly, he swung away from the board. "If you are right about sleepers," he said to Curtis, "then there isn't much time. Even if I've guess a-rightly, these calculation are moot in the face of elapsed eons. No soulgem, even the hundreds we've seen below, can sustain their energy.

"We've got to find a way to drain the lower levels before we can begin to repair the soulgem banks. We'll new fresh gems just to sustain. To revive, we will need a larger amount of fresh energy. A lot of gems. Black gems. Strongest, uniform source rather than multiple white gems for which we would first need to construct a device to concentrate and homogenize the power flow."

"Shit," Curtis muttered. "Who in hell keeps a store of black soulgems?"

"The Archimage," said J'zargo, surprising them. "Vampire masters, necromancer masters — she thinks it only fitting their souls fills her black gems. She collected a large basketful from Volkihar."

"All right then," said Curtis. "We finish exploring this level and then we try the next one up."

The other rooms had nothing new except one. A sort of shrine room. A falmer one since he couldn't imagine the dwemer honoring their gods with gardens. This shrine had planter boxes of dead plants and the shrine had one shining piece of white marble of a stylized sun.

"Auri-El, the fiery heart of Aetherius," said Baladas. "A very old form and symbol. This was before he became more closely associated with the dragon, or it became understood that the dragons came from his blood."

"The First Star. Great," drawled Curtis. "Well, if the only other choice is the Old Man of the Void or the Father of Dragons..." Curtis took a small wax candle from his emergency kit and touched flame to it. "Here's for the darkness. We could use a clue, Akatosh." He also took a swig from the wine flask he'd brought along as part of his lunch kit. As Ilya led the way up to the next level, Curtis softly started singing an old Sunday-school spiritual.

_"I'm climbing up the mountain. I'm climbing up the mountain_  
_Once I've traveled in the valley_  
_So low, lonely, and weary was I_  
_Now I travel in the valley no more_  
_And I'll reach the other side_  
_By and by._  
_Well, well, I'm climbing up the mountain_  
_To the sky_  
_I'm a going where I'll never_  
_Never die..._

* * *

_**Kopol**__: __S'okay. I was confused at the target relevancy. I do welcome constructive criticism and/or suggestions. I got tired of the "just fell off the back of a wagon today" intro also and that's why I use the "Alternative Start" mod now._


	13. Chapter 13 Killer Instincts

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Killer Instincts**

This level was another server farm. This was operations, Curtis felt certain. What was down below in the flooded levels were then power regulators and filters and reserves. That seemed to make more sense to him now that he thought about it.

If Saarthal, as he suspected, had been the power source, then the source had been compromised for some centuries when one of the Gaulder boys was thrown in that tomb and some of the power was leeched off by the draugr the warlord had become. Power to Skytemple got totally cut off over five years ago when the Dragonborn killed the draugr and then the College hauled the glowball out of Saarthal.

Reserves below had sustained operations so far despite damages to the chamber, but energy was low. Some of the panels up here flickered erratically in contrast to others that held steady.

He was sure the level above held the sleepers. He wanted to rush upwards but this time Baladas wasn't moving. He insisted there were patterns in the way the gems were set and he wanted Curtis to also look into the patterns in case there might be something he would recognize with his esoteric knowledge.

Damn if he wasn't right. Rose-gold lines on yellow-gold panels. Giant circuit boards. They were bugs walking inside a giant, open computer case. This was not his specialty. He had vague ideas of what he was looking at, but beyond that...

OK. The five-panel groupings around a single column of tubes. A wide, flat metal bands engraved with letters and studded with powered gems wrapped the columns. The gems were stacked in columns of five. Readout levels. Two dozen groupings, two dozen sleepers. He explained his impressions to the others.

Looking around they found one column with dead readouts. "A corpse? Let's go see," said J'zargo.

"Wait, I gotta finish mapping," said Curtis. They waited impatiently as he plotted the positions of each grouping and painstakingly copied the letterforms. He was certain they were names.

Upstairs. Or, up ramp. Easier to move large objects.

The doors opened to a shallow room in the center of which was that snowmer fiery sun statue.

Baladas sensed strong enchantments buried in all the surfaces of the room to prevent brute-force attacks whether sledge hammer or explosive magic. He was unfamiliar with this pattern of magic and at present had no idea how to de-spell it. "It's nothing like the ancient dwemer magic so I can only conclude it's strictly falmer."

"Falmer only, huh? Wanna bet it was put in a lot later. Like, probably when relations crashed with the dwemer so some snowmer put this in place to prevent their former friends from accessing the people inside."

"Paranoid speculation. Probably right. You're thinking like a Telvanni." Baladas touched the sun. "In which case, the magic must be carefully studied. A wrong approach could be fatal."

Curtis lingered behind as the others headed back down to study the gem boards. He ran his hands over the sun carving, searching in his mind for any "feeling" of power and only getting a hum in his ears that, for all he knew, was simply the feedback squealing of tinnitus. He was feeling vaguely disappointed that he couldn't get into the final chamber.

Yeah. It was ego. Maybe he was special in some Game god's plan, but not that special. _Nah, bro, you ain't the hero; you is the hero sidekick._ Yeah, that was it. He was Watson to some Sherlock who needed to get his or her ass in the game. He was the Chief Engineer of this ship, not the captain. Fine. So where's the captain? Was it the Archimage, the Dragonborn, that needed to be here?

Whatever. The job of the Chief Engineer was to keep the ship intact and ready to go when the powers-that-be got their butts aboard and started barking orders. So he'd better get back to work and start studying those over-sized circuit boards.

Nope, nope, hold up a sec. First job is to get crews in here to fix the plumbing and clear out the debris in the lower levels so that the power system can be worked on; second, get the power system running; third, make sure Baladas and Calcelmo work together with minimum gear grinding 'cuz they are the wizard bros who need to figure the magic crystal setup.

Tolfdir accepted that premise with a grim look on his face. "Pull whomever you need from the College staff to help you," he said, surprising Curtis. "I've just received this morning news that the Archimage is sending a new friend of hers here. A Knight-Paladin Gelebor. An ancient falmer alive since the Dawn Era.

"You're f**g sh**g me."

"I'm what? Please clarify," Tolfdir demanded in icy tones.

"Sorry," said Curtis, instantly slumping in apology. He'd since learned Tolfdir was one of those who were fussy about casual coarse swearing though he wasn't above the occasional "by Oblivion" or "damn" himself. He had been a battlemage during the Oblivion Crisis in the combined Eastmarch and Winterhold forces and was no stranger to obscenities. However, a mage who couldn't control his language then had no business trying to control magic. That Curtis was not a mage made no difference. He was an accepted member of the College and therefore had to exhibit the same discipline. Curtis clarified:

"I mean, this is mind-blowing news. An original falmer? He could... Oh, wait. 'Knight-Paladin,' you said. So, not a mage. Maybe a spellsword type? You think he might know the magic used to unlock the door?"

"I don't know. Out of necessity details were not included in the message. There are, unfortunately, many spies about. As we had originally warned you against putting yourself too forward, you've managed to do so anyways and students have reported to me the many questions asked about your past.

"Yeah, I get asked a lot. But it can't all be me. The Archimage is the Dragonborn and people want to know what she's about. The Empire hasn't had a Dragonblood Emperor since Uriel Septim died. Martin Septim was his secret bastard son, and I don't know if priests of Akatosh are vowed to celibacy, but far as I know he's not known to have any children so that's it for the Septim line. The Archimage is not a Septim but she is Dragonborn. I'll bet most of the spies want to know what she's up to."

"Those spies we expected," said Tolfdir patiently. "It's these new ones that worry us more. We've compiled quite a bit of history about Slitter and Councilor Adril of Raven Rock has sent us copies of official investigation records of both Mogrul and Slitter. Ask Urag if you wish to know more.

"No. These spies want to know where you get your ideas. They want to know where you learned these new theories that you teach. They want to know if you have any attachments and family. Anyone who might miss you.

"And I think we can both agree the last thing they need to find out is the existence of living snowmer and dwemer. Any suggestions on what misinformation we can spread about your project in Skytemple?"

"A cover story, yeah, yeah. L'me think about that."

"Think of one quickly. And watch your back.

"But just in case you forget to, I'm assigning Apprentice Ilya to you. Please be considerate of her school schedule."

"A bodyguard? But..."

"You will accept Apprentice Ilya or I will hire a professional spellsword to act as your keeper."

"Is Ilya OK with this?"

"Her schooling is free for howsoever long she is with us. I do hope you will do nothing to endanger her scholarship."

As he left the archimage's quarters, Curtis found himself clawing at his ears again, a sure sign Slitter had been triggered. Slitter was frustrated and wanted desperately to find these spies and make minced meat of them. Curtis was so tempted to let him. "But we don't know who're the spies," he argued. _"Just find one and make an example of him!" _Slitter retorted. "What? And prove we have something to hide? No, no. This is shield work. Deny, deny, deny." "_I don't use shields; I have a claymore_," Slitter grumbled but settled back.

Curtis took some slow, deep breaths to calm his heart rate down; ramp down from a battle alert. He'd once explained his world's definition of schizophrenia and Urag had replied with, "You're living in a haunted house and the house is the ghost. It's one of those situations where the only way to get rid of the ghost is to burn down the building and bless-salt the land. Impractical in your case." Hence, his recent meditation instructions with Drevin, the Illusion master, to help Curtis ground himself in reality, then Colette for self-healing in an attempt to blunt Slitter's killer instincts.

The Slitter House needed a lot of internal patchwork and foundation work as far as Curtis was concerned. On one hand, it was solid, sturdy, and protected him well when it came to facing external physical challenges. The ground, however, was crumbling and the dunmer building style was unfamiliar. Playing the Morrowind game gave him some clues, yet all he had to do for a reality check is try to hang out with regular dunmer at the tavern. Inflections, body language — totally alien yet familiar in his dreams. Get drunk enough and channel through Slitter, things seemed easier but Slitter wasn't a great conversationalist. Any friends or acquaintances trying to talk to him would only get surly grunts back. Asked a technical question and get, "Sod off, s'wit."

Yeah. Homey don't play that.

He went looking for Colette and found her in conference with Ilya. They were having tea in Colette's room. "Oh, hey, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all, Curtis. We were discussing Ilya's schedule."

"Yeah. 'Bout that. Ilya, I'm sorry. I had no idea this was gonna happen. Look, guarding my ass doesn't have to be your problem. If it's school fees, I'll help you pay for—"

"No. I'm happy to take the job. Master Colette and I were discussing my lesson plans."

"Private lesson plans," added Colette, "that I will tailor to accommodate Ilya's learning goals and schedule."

"Yeah, but still—"

"And for the times Ilya can't be with you, we've been discussing alternates. J'zargo is fond enough of you and certainly makes time to be present for your judo classes. 'Hanging out,' as you would put it, with you would not be seen as unusual. It's expected since you two have been collaborating closely of late on your special underwater tools. As a third possibility, we were thinking Sergeant Beck or his son, Elden. Everyone knows that Beck likes your judo classes and he's also your regular sword sparring partner and he regularly is your wilderness guide when you want to go poking at mines. And Elden, well, he's clearly an admirer of yours and is eager to learn everything you can teach. If he started tagging along with you people would naturally think you'd taken him on as your apprentice.

"Oh, and stop scowling like that, Curtis. If there's any danger, Elden has been sword and knife training with his father since he could walk. He's not a helpless child. It's not unusual for Nords around here to take on adult responsibilities or even start families as young as 16. He's been in combat with robbers and he's fought for life against wolves and bears. He was a junior guardsman before quitting to work on the Breakwater project."

"OK, OK. How 'bout you, babe? Maybe you wanna guard me sometime?"

"Very funny, Curtis. I'm not a guard."

"Lady, you is a master healer. You don't need a knife or sword. You can drop anybody just by stopping their heart or popping a blood vessel in their brain."

"It's better if our Master Healer not get comfortable in the mindset of a killer," said Ilya, frowning at him. "I'm a killer and I'm coming out the end of it. I know plenty of ways to kill and now I'm determined to learn how to heal. Killing, if it ever becomes too easy a solution, is a hard habit to unlearn. Killing, even more than healing, is trained to be a reaction faster than thought. An impulse to happen at the merest twitch of nerves."

Curtis blinked at the almost fanatic intensity of her voice and posture.

"Ilya is learning healing in order to help her fellow soldiers," Colette said gently, laying a hand on Ilya's nearest arm and clearly exerting a soothing spell. "Curtis, during your fumbling explanations of the discipline you called psychiatry in your world, you mentioned post traumatic stress disorder. Ilya has said she had no problems killing, but she is aware not all her fellow soldiers felt the same. Many did so because it was war yet the guilt eats at them."

"A killer. That wants to be a healer." Curtis looked at Ilya with some confusion.

She smiled wryly. "I know I'm a killer and I've decided my enemy is the madness that strikes down my friends at their most vulnerable moments. That hounds them to exhaustion and to madness where they can't live with others because they can't stop fighting."

Curtis abruptly smiled. "OK. I get it. I'll tell you what I know. I used to have three guys on my crews in active treatment. It's a tough challenge you're taking on Ilya; I'll be glad to help in any way I can."

"And that is what makes you worth my efforts," said Ilya.


	14. Chapter 14 Road Trip

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Road Trip**

They'd gotten the lower level of Skytemple patched well enough that the modified bilge pumps could begin pumping out the water. They'd estimated it would take three weeks at least. The pumps were on the small side. Just as well. With all the small machinery, having any loose parts sucked out in a great stream of water and spewed into the ocean wasn't desirable.

In the meantime, it was road trip time as he and Drains-The-Swamp had been summoned to Windhelm by the Gray Quarter Steward for a review of the Shoreline Reclamation & Breakwater Project and the archeological dig being conducted at the Skytemple Ruins.

That was four wagons plodding on a leisurely course to Windhelm. Two empty supply wagons for what needed to be picked up at the docks and farm sources, and the other two for passengers and wagon guards.

Of all the cities in Skyrim, Windhelm was the nearest to being a defensible, walled city/fortress. What weren't in the game were the many stone watchtowers on the mountain overlooking Windhelm. The Hero Ysgramor had built it to last ages. Curtis darkly wondered how many thousands of enslaved snowmer died to dredge out the harbor and build the city.

There were more farms, a lumber yard, cattle stockyards, stables, and even a row of tents for merchants and artisans. The khajiit were also in the area bringing more exotic wares and luxuries. Now this was more like it for a major Skyrim city. Curtis estimated the base population within the city to be at about ten to twelve thousand. Pretty low density for what he was used to, but considering land resources and current technology, it was at a sustainable size for now. But with troops returning home and a likely population shift from those preferring a "free" Skyrim versus continuing to live under the Empire, there was gonna be population and economic strain on the horizon.

"Barely enough work for the True Sons and Daughters of Skyrim. We don't need any foreigners, much less elvish ones, especially dark elvish ones."

Yeah. Nothing like home-grown prejudices and nurtured isolationist attitudes. Dark elves and argonians had supplied a lot of the basic workforce and services, but with returning nord troops, there was bound to be resentment and a push to reclaim "their place," and further resentment when employers looked at the balance sheet of hiring nord versus a cheaper non-nord.

Then, too, Curtis couldn't keep track of how many times he lost business to white competitors with the only way of getting a contract was if he was willing (not!) to reduce his job bid to where his own profit was zero or in the negatives unless he did substandard work that would destroy his business and reputation in the long run. And then when he did get a major contract, if he couldn't find adequate suppliers in the black community, he'd have to rely on the dominant white and they usually had ties to his white competitors and there would always be problems that cropped up in supplies in quality and delivery deadlines.

It made Curtis all the more curious to see how business was conducted in the ghetto. Oh, sorry. The Gray Quarter. From what he heard, they even had their own police force. Sadri, he'd heard, relied heavily on his Morrowind and Solstheim ties. Jarl Ulfric had been willing to overlook that during war time. How would that change going forward?

"Do we have time to visit Refugees Rest, grandfather?" That was Tirenea, Mage Edd's granddaughter. She looked to be at least 10 but was actually 15 or 16. Edd had told him she was typical for her age group and that she was due for a growth spurt in the next couple years.

Curtis had no idea what Elder Scrolls canon was on the elvish aging process. He had always assumed the elves of Tamriel were like baby Vulcans, meaning their physical and mental development outpaced their emotional development, and sexual awareness didn't hit until they were nearly 30. But, that was comparing a real race to a fictional alien race based on pointy ears.

Oh, boy. He was just crazy talking now. Slitter, damn him, was no help at all. Nice to know, however, he hadn't been a pervert. Was actually a bit of a prude when it came to sex. See a fine-looking, young Dunmer girl and feel nothing if Slitter judged her immature. Human girls confused and irritated Slitter because children (by his standards) shouldn't be giving off sexual signals like they do. Thank heavens Slitter liked Colette, who looked to be mid-20's (barely legal) but was nearly 100.

Now Tirenea was a chatterbox. Master Edd grumbled that it was probably the Hlaalu blood in her. She was excited to stay at her cousin's house again. So, she was Sadri's cousin. Mage Edd had had a passing affair with one of Sadri's cousins during the Oblivion Crisis and then years later had a son dropped on his doorstep. Edd had brought her along, intending to leave her in Sadri's care while he attended to several business meetings on the College's behalf.

Master Edd Theman had originally joined the College as a Mysticism instructor, for which he held small, instructor permission only classes. But in the College's move to expand their presence in the community he had fallen back into the role of Mouth, a job he had once held for Mage-Lord Timberwolf, an Imperial-Nord who had shocked everyone by succeeding in rising to the ruling rank of the Telvanni, even to being declared the Hortator of the House. It was felt that his experience in dealing with the powerful, dangerous, egotistical, erratic Telvanni lords was sufficient practice for him to deal with magic-phobic jarls and other public matters where College representation was deemed necessary. The College of Winterhold's first official PR officer; a necessary office since the Archimage and Master Wizard Tolfdir had too much already to do and none of the non-mer faculty volunteered.

"Hey, if Master Edd doesn't have time, I'll take you there. I've always wanted to see it since it was rebuilt," said Curtis. "I've heard more land was bought to build a small hostel for mourners and expanded the chapel to include a small reception hall for indoor services."

"Reclamations chapel," grumbled Master Edd. "They've been pestering Revyn to open a mission inside Windhelm but he's been finding ways to deny them. Couldn't refuse them a set up at Refugees Rest because that's technically Morrowind ground. Idealized, white-washed conglomerate of the three old religions."

"White-washed how?" asked Ilya. For this trip she wasn't dressed as a College Restorations novice but as a decommissioned Stormcloak officer. She wore most of her old uniform but had exchanged the bear-skull helm of her former rank for an open face steel helmet. Instead of a greatsword she carried the spear-like dwemer digging bar. Before answering her, Master Edd sent Tirenea back to the stables for a small bag he thought he might have left behind in the wagons.

"Reclamations priests dull the bite of the old religions, giving a false face to the Daedra princes. In the way the early False Tribunal priests tried to bridge the understanding by saying the original Three were 'anticipations' of the new gods, this reclamation effort seeks to bridge proven lies back to their truths which are yet more false images. Our three Daedra, our Great Ancestors, are nowhere near as kind or caring as this new temple presents to our poor, lost and confused people.

"Millions of souls since the change from Chimer to Dunmer were lost to Sithis or soul trapped by their faith into the great Ghost Fence. The False Tribunal's origins were here on this plane of Mundus and they had no other place to send the souls of their worshipers. Sad fates awaited those Tribunal faithful who slipped into the treaty realms of Oblivion. Those who worshiped Almalexia, seeking comfort from the Mercy of Morrowind, would find themselves the practice meat of Boethiah's arenas; those intellectuals who sought Sotha Sil, the Mystery of Morrowind, would find themselves spreading dung for Azura's gardens of twilight roses and wandering long paths to nowhere; and the brave, honorable heroes who died for Vivec's ideals, the Might of Morrowind, would find themselves tangled in the skeins of Mephala, hapless tidbits to be snacked on at her leisure."

"Well, shit," was Curtis's opinion.

Ilya shook her head sadly. "Who do you worship?" she asked.

"I'm Telvanni. My soul goes to whomever wants it and is strong enough to take it."

"I see. Then what principles do you live by that define your god?" she asked instead. "Because from what I've heard of you and by what I've witnessed of your work in the College any number of Aedra would have you as well."

Master Edd merely shrugged. "Same conditions apply. I wouldn't object but I would be strongly surprised. If we live by our natures so let the gods take accordingly."

"Ah. Well, I still hope for Sovngarde."

Curtis smiled sadly, wondering if he'd ever see his family again. "Ilya, you'd pass that entrance exam, no problem." At Edd's curious look he supplied, "The God Tsun is the bouncer at the Whalebone Bridge. He challenges everyone who wants to enter the Feasting Hall to a test of skill. You're expected to put up a worthy fight whether warrior or wizard. Don't know how he tests the common folk or if even common folk get in. The hall is Heroes Only. But outside, there still should be feasting provided, celebrations, a chance to connect with family and friends you've lost or only heard about... or wait 'til your kids and other loved ones can join you."

Tirenea returned saying that she couldn't find any missed luggage and she and the drivers searched both passenger carts.

"I do apologize, my dear, for wasting your time and especially after a long journey. If it had truly been important I would have kept it on me. I should not have sent you after a trifle." Master Edd gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. "Now, let's get to Cousin Revyn's house."

"We'll see you tomorrow, master, Tirenea," said Ilya briskly, taking Curtis's arm. "Come on, my brother's got us rooms for tonight at Candlehearth and he's paying for dinner. Don't take offense if he spews stupid things about mages and dunmer. He's not a total icebrain, just has a bad habit of repeating what our parents and uncles have been drumming into our heads all these years."

"Yeah, punching out Rolff Stone-Fist was always fun."

She looked at him oddly. "Assaulting a Stone-Fist isn't really smart. He's a disgrace to the name, but General Galmar won't tolerate any disrespect to his family. And I'm warning you now so you don't have the urge to punch out my brother. Unlike Rolff, if you're on fire, my brother will run to fetch a bucket of clean snow to dump on you."


	15. Chapter 15 Sadri's Used Wares

_A/N: Chapter 15 reposted with minor text changes. Other writers out there, do you find all your errors and awkward ideas only jump out *after* posting? It's like the lights will only flip on when stuff's way out the door._

**TheArchmage1****:** As long as I have JAVA, _Winte.r_ never ends  
But Win7 is. Switching to Win10, clean wipe.  
Reinstall all software & futz with licenses. Tweak, tweak, twerk  
Triple shot, whole milk, and a couple of marshmallow bars also  
Cholesterol and sugar levels exceed tolerances. System overload  
ZZZzzzzz

**GalacticHalfling****: **Well, they thought they had the best intentions…

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****15****: Sadri****'s Used Wares**

Curtis scowled as he studied himself in the fold-out travel mirror. He was meeting Steward Revyn Sadri soon and nerves had him primping. He was anxious to make a good impression so today he wore a college adept's robe instead of work clothes — neatly pressed, iron-gray and dusty blue robes of no particular discipline and soft College boots. His belt buckle, however, was a small, silver dwemer machine cog. Curtis had had Master Enchanter Sergius enchant the robes for warmth and health regeneration instead of the usual power and discipline-specific boosts.

Months of good diet and conscious care had softened and plumped out his skin so that Slitter's old battle scars were less noticeable. His hair and beard had thickened and acquired a healthy sheen, its cinnamon brown was more pronounced and had natural red highlights. Curtis had gotten used to the long, straight hair instead of his old cornrows and wore it today in temple braids brought together at the back of his with silver clasp also shaped like a dwemer cog.

He'd heard a lot of strange stories about the Dragonborn's — about Windhelm's Steward of the Gray Quarter, the dunmer pawnshop dealer who was now one of Jarl Ulfric's sworn and trusted advisers. Summed up, the 200-plus, former hand-to-mouth pawnshop owner married the young daughter of a very rich and influential Imperial family.

She adventured and dragged home treasure; he sold the treasure, invested, and built up an even greater fortune. She acquired land and titles with her sword; he set up profitable ventures at each property. He was even credited for the first Telvanni colony setting up on his wife's Morthal property right across the bay from Solitude.

It was said he discovered the secrets of the vampire army of Volkihar. It's said he brokered the freedom of the Reach from the Empire. It's said he and his wife freed Solstheim from the grip of an ancient dragonpriest's spell. It's said the Emperor is a personal friend of his. It's said his house and shop had guardian ghosts, and that rare and mysterious treasures could sometimes be found in his shop.

Sadri's Used Wares — Curtis loved watching those creepy TV shows of demon-chasers who tracked down cursed and haunted objects sold from a pawnshop. Then there were those strange shops, those lost-and-found emporiums that showed up in mysterious places at the strangest of times, that sold answers, solutions, even salvation if the buyers were willing to pay the price.

"Ready, ser?" Ilya called from the hallway.

"Coming."

Escorting them into the Quarter was Sadri's apprentice, a tall nord woman who looked suspiciously familiar although Curtis couldn't recall any purple tinted mahogany haired ladies with large, luminous, maple amber eyes. Her style of dress was different. Ilya identified it as High Rock fashion. Her name was Yannig Blackwing, mid-20's, from a small town between the Reach and High Rock, and just beginning her apprenticeship to learn higher-level business planning and finance from Sadri. She was currently Sadri's second apprentice with two more to come in the future.

Curtis knew that the Gray Quarter would be bigger than the Game. A lot brighter too with the tall street lamps throwing down both radiant heat and light. Curtis was eager to explore the Quarter once he was done meeting with Sadri. Maybe he could persuade Yannig to do that, or get her to recommend someone.

Sadri's old store had been partially converted to an office building, but he still lived there as his primary residence. A second floor had been added as his residential area. But for today they would be meeting in the private rooms of the Cornerclub's owner.

And that place was way beyond the Game version. A lot of money had been poured into turning the seedy bar to a really nice place for drinks and light meals.

A lot of armored uniforms having lunch. The Cornerclub was obviously a cop hangout. It fit with what Curtis had learned from ex-Windhelm dunmer. Sadri was general politics and business, Ambarys, the Cornerclub's owner, was law enforcement (but not necessarily Windhelm law), and the Muthsera Elani, the lady who ran the community center, was social services — The Windhelm Tribunal. The bar's location was convenient for cops policing the primary commercial core in the Quarter that stretched between here and the docks.

Two sets of stair from the main floor. They went up the stairs behind the bar which led to the kitchen. The other stairs, he was told, went up to a large, open room with bunkbeds and lockable chests that people could rent for the night. As they cut through the kitchen to get to the stairs to the third floor, Curtis noticed a door in the wall that would be shared with Sadri's place. Meeting here made a bit more sense now.

They entered the parlor room where Sadri waited. The central table was covered with paper and various object that Curtis proudly recognized as the many items he had introduced to Winterhold primarily to help with construction and because he missed them, and then because it gave a nudge to the local crafting and fabrication economy. Ordinary things like safety pins, paper clips, duct tape, those snappy luggage strap buckles, clothes hangers, grease paint sticks, construction helmets, rubber bands, small ceramic water filters, mirrors, magnifiers and microscopes and telescopes. Warming the room was a potbelly stove with a tea kettle on top. The papers, at a glance, were not just reports but copies of schematics Curtis had made for hands trucks and dollies, bolts, screws, pump sprayers…

Sadri more or less looked as he did in the Game except for being older and grayer and dressed in clothes of simple cut but fine cotton and silk. The soft, slightly smarmy voice was the same. After making introductions, Yannig left to keep Ilya company downstairs in the bar.

"Sedura," said Curtis, bowing his head.

Sadri returned the gesture. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you after reading all the reports from the College. The reality of our world, I hope, is one you are getting comfortable with?"

"I'm getting there, sedura. I've got great friends who are helping me along."

"Excellent." Sadri turned slightly and swept his arm towards a side table with bottles and food trays. "I've had a light breakfast brought in. There's tea, kafe, and juices."

"Coffee? Really?" said Curtis, eagerly moving forward. He deeply inhaled and was happy to find the scent was enticing even to his new body. "Milk? Honey? Sugar?"

"Milk and honey. No moonsugar, sorry."

Curtis filled a mug of pot boiled coffee and took a sip. Thankfully, being dunmer, the temperature burn on his tongue was less than it would've been if he'd been human. A dark roast — he preferred light to medium — but it was still nectar. Soon as he got time he was gonna fabricate one of those drip cones and spec out paper requirements for filters. He liked coffee, but he wasn't a fan of the oils. He wondered if mushroom parchment paper had less of that wood pulp flavor? Ooh, hey, how about that plunger thingy that wasn't a french press that makes pretty good almost-espresso…

Sadri gently cleared his throat and Curtis realized he'd just been standing there for gods know how long with the steaming cup to his nose in a coffee-induced daze. He piled some food on a small plate and carried it back to the table.

They were silent for a while, enjoying their meal and studying each other. Curtis expected the other to make some comment about Slitter. Sadri, however, had undoubtedly read all the reports and didn't appear interested in wasting time with inane, repetitious questions.

"Your tale of the Skyrim Game is fascinating as well as horribly frightening. I quite enjoyed your outline of, um — en-pee-sees? — myself included. I laughed to find I shared the same domestic script as Taarie in Solitude. I would agree that I would be a whiner if I was confined to a country estate. In truth, I'd have argued. Even then, if I'd have agreed, I would have bought a packhorse soon after to go peddling out of sheer boredom.

"Now the main quest of killing Alduin … that was interesting."

"What I remember of Skuldafen probably won't help," said Curtis apologetically. "The real place most definitely will be bigger and more dangerous."

"Of course. And if my beloved must go to Sovngarde, Alduin will be more desperate and certainly not content to just fly around and stupidly wait until she finds the three Tongues. It would be a fight every step of the way to the Hall of Heroes. And Tsun will be raising his axe to a living woman, not a dead soul who has only an entrance test to fail, not her very life and soul. In Sovngarde, she's beyond the help of her Ancestors and must fight alone.

"Unacceptable," he pronounced softly, bitingly.

Curtis hurt at seeing Sadri's distress and hearing his fear. "I could be wrong. Lotta things here the Game got wrong." It was all the comfort he could give.

The old mer raised his eyes and there was a look that almost scared the ghost out of Curtis.

A blink. It was gone, to be replaced by good humor. Curtis wasn't fooled, but he knew it would be smarter to follow the other's lead.

"Yes. One hopes. Like all you've accomplished in less than two years." He picked up the snap clasps. "I especially like these. And the safety pins.

"You've brought new industry to Winterhold that will certainly bring in coin during the time it will take to rebuild their ship-building and fishing industry. The College is also contemplating an expansion into non-magicka science arts. It's been centuries since Winterhold was considered a center of learning. We are pleased by that. We expect that, in spite of Jarl Korir, Winterhold will soon be become a college town again."

"Yeah. Steward Kraldar is certain Jarl Korir will be happy once he sees how many nords are coming home to find plenty of jobs available," Curtis said. "We also want Winterhold to be known as a center for non-magic innovation, not just for the College. You know, rebuild and promote nord work ethic and crafstmanship."

"Excellent," said Sadri. "But I asked you here to speak about a very special job. Tolfdir has told you that Knight-Paladin Gelebor is coming. He should be in Winterhold by the time you return there. I wanted to tell you the story of the Hidden Vale and the Vampires. Stories that weren't part your game."

Curtis nodded enthusiastically. "I'm guessing expansion modules that came out after I stopped playing. Skyrim is 10 years old after all. That's pretty ancient where I come from. But the Elder Scrolls are still pretty popular and people just keep writing new stuff for it. My brother still plays it from time to time and that's after he's downloaded a butt-load of new mods." Curtis got up to get another cup of coffee. He also topped off Sadri's tea.

The next four hours Curtis listened to the wildest stories of the Dawnguard, the insane Lord Harkon and his obsession to find Auri-El's Bow. There was also the sad story of the Falmer brothers. One brother was the warrior who guarded for thousands of years his people's last sacred haven. The other brother was the arch-curate fallen to vampirism. His greatest evil was to write the prophecy that fed the mad Lord Harkon's ambition; his last act of faith to Auri-El was to imprison in his defiled temple an army of frozen vampire falmer.

And then the story of Miraak of Solstheim. Solstheim was a place Curtis had, at least, heard of even though he never played the Bloodmoon expansion on the Morrowind game. The Winterhold quest line had been altered slightly by the Dragonborn because Savos Aren got to live a couple more years. Savos had been retired to Solstheim to do research on the Miraak problem for the Dragonborn. He still died. It chilled Curtis to hear Revyn calmly confess to wielding the knife on Savos to use him as the blood sacrifice to bring an ancient nord god to power.

The two stories would mesh when the Dragonborn brought her mate to the Vale and Sadri underwent the pilgrim's journey for the sake of Knight-Paladin Gelebor. With Sadri acting as Mouth for the ghosts, there came the revelation that ancient Falmer slept somewhere in Winterhold and that Gelebor's service would be redeemed by Jhunal's champion of lost knowledge, who would find and awaken the lost Falmer.

"Me," said Curtis, grimacing. "Yeah. Savos called me 'champion' though it really didn't register with me then. He made it damn clear I'd been snatched back from the void and into this reality to do work for this owl god.

"I've actually been enjoying it so far," he admitted. "I miss my family, of course, but if I wasn't alive here, I'd be dead to them all the same. After this life, I dunno. I'm betting that since Jhunal is a Divine his faithful get to go to Aetherius rather than Mora's depressing bog hole.

"Uh, I don't suppose you would know?"

"No, I don't know. Apologies," said Sadri. "I don't know what Urag may have told you, but I only communicate with my Ancestors; rarely with any other and only under very special circumstances."

"Yeah. S'okay. Don't sweat it. I'll still live my life like I think I should."

Sadri soon after ended the interview, apologizing that he had other meetings to get to. "I invite you to head over to my shop. I believe you know it formerly as Calixto's Museum. My first apprentice, Savela, is there and is eager to meet you. She is thinking of attending Winterhold for a year and thinks you could advise her on her academic choice. Please keep in mind she is unaware the Archimage is my wife.

"Ah, and you and your companion, Ilya, may have half off on any purchase made today in my shop.

"It has been a true pleasure, sera, and I hope we have time to meet again before you leave."

+—+—+—+—+—+

"Yannig took your friend shopping after the first hour," said the Cornerclub owner, Ambarys. He gestured to an elderly, silver-haired dunmer wearing a fur trimmed leather cap and the heavy chitin armor of a Quarter guardsman. "This is Second-Commander Veryn Avehan. He'll be your guide and guard escort about the Quarter."

Curtis didn't miss the distinctive sword Avehan wore. He lifted his eyes up and Avehan smiled. "Nice sword," Curtis said. "A Balmora Special or souvenir picked up somewhere?" Stupid thing to say. Why would a dunmer be carrying around a Blades akaviri katana?

"Cosades didn't hand out shit except for assignments," said Ambarys, surprising Curtis. "That's a souvenir from the ruins of Cloud Temple that Sadri's cousin, Julius Victor, found and brought back. He gave it to Revyn, Revyn gave it to me, I gave it to Veryn because I'm happy enough with my shortsword and Veryn liked it because it would replace the one he'd lost. Happy?" The two mer looked hard at him. Curtis backed up, hands up, saying, "OK, OK, sorry I asked."

"The story bits Revyn shared with me about you are hard to believe," said Avehan. "Jhunal of Apocrypha bringing in a soul from a place beyond Aetherius. A Nerevarine. I have so many questions."

"Oh, hey," Curtis grinned tentatively; he had a bad feeling about this. Two old Blades from Morrowind. He'd thought meeting Fast Eddie the Rat was as real the Morrowind Game could get, but these two felt like trouble he'd best avoid. "I guess here I'm a true False Incarnate. Great."

Ambarys snorted and set down two mugs of sujamma. "A drink for the road, seras, then get out of here."


	16. Chapter 16 Blazing Star

_A/N: song/movie "Blazing Saddles"_

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

**Chapter ****16****:**** Blazing Star**

"Seriously? The first guy to be cremated here was Sadri's father-in-law? An Imperial?"

"Indeed. Legate Anthony Felix. I am told it was quite a show," said Avehan. "I was still in Morrowind so all I know is second-hand."

Curtis looked again at the cement bowl, imagining it filled will logs for a funeral pyre. "Big turnout?"

"To witness the reopening of Refugees Rest? Hundreds. Jarl Ulfric himself and members of his court attended. The Jarl, I am told, was there more to honor the Legate than to celebrate our reclaiming of this piece of land."

"I'm surprised," Curtis admitted. "This guy must have been something for Ulfric to forget that he was an officer of the Imperial Legion."

"Legate Felix's war record was an impressive one," said Avehan.

"How'd people take it? I mean, the first funeral is for a non-Dunmer."

"I am told there were some protests. But then Sadri and his wife paid the majority of costs of rebuilding and he did all of the arrangements of contractors and supplies."

"Wow. That's crazy. In a good way, I mean," Curtis hastily added. "Nothing like a little excitement to make it memorable."

Avehan laughed. "Oh, it was a memorable day. I wasn't there; I was still in Morrowind. But it's easy enough to find people who were in attendance and who could tell you first-hand what they witnessed. I am told the Dragonborn arrived on her fiery skeleton horse and demanded her right to stand with the Legate's children. The Legate, she declared, had been unfaithful to his dunmer wife and had lain with one of the healers attending him during his convalescence. Then she unmasked, an unheard of action, and let the world see her face. A very pretty one I am told. She and Helsette's brother strongly resembled each other, bearing testament to their shared Imperial blood, more so than Helsette who sides more to her mother in looks."

"Holy shit." In a few moments an embarrassed grin blossomed.

"What's so funny?" Avehan asked.

"Sorry. I'm just picturing all this going down in my mind and I keep hearing this particular ballad. "_She rode a blazing saddle, she wore a shining star. Her job: to offer battle to dragons near and far. She conquered fear and she conquered hate, she turned our night into day. She made her blazing saddle a torch to light the way."_

Avehan frowned. "Are you mocking the Dragonborn? That has the sound and face of a brave tune, but the words are mockery."

Curtis raised eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Wow. Most people never picked up on that, hearing only the tune."

"Then they aren't listening, the fools. False heroes who ride in in shining armor and on false promises and boasts, then when real trouble slaps their ass, that's all you see of them as they run away, their burning backside. 'Shining Star' indeed."

His frown abruptly deepened to a dark scowl. "There is another lie in there. It is Helsette who wears Azura's Star. There are rumors of . . ." he shut up then and glared almost resentfully at Curtis.

Curtis shrugged and kept his tone light as if he didn't notice Avehan's reactions. "Won't hear it from me. Besides, that song only had real meaning when properly connected to the movie, er, play it was created for. A play about an innocent man almost executed and then who had to save the people who'd almost killed him."

"The Dragonborn lived in Helgen, but she was at a safe distance and watched the dragon destroy the place. It was her half sister Helsette who escaped the chopping block and the burning city," said Avehan blandly as if repeating a script.

"So that's the story." Curtis turned about to give the cremation bowl and Refugees Rest tower a final look. "Hey, let's head back to the inn. Children's story hour should be over by now so we can get Tirenea and all get some lunch."

At the Reclamations Chapel the Elder there had finished the story of how the Prophet Velothi had labored to spread the gospel of the Daedra and had grown the number of the faithful despite opposition. Tirenea said the Elder's version made Boethiah sound almost indistinguishable from Azura in temperament and action, a version neither her grandfather nor her Cousin Revyn would approve of.

Curtis asked her how her grandfather would tell it, short version, please.

By that version, the Great Ancestors were not concerned about the welfare of the Chimer but more interested in stealing worshipers from the Divines for their own. Curtis started whistling _Blazing Saddles_ again as he pictured the Great Ancestors as three very clever cattle rustlers. They pulled off a heist of a great breeding herd of Chimer and created themselves a nation dedicated to feeding them power.

At the Refugees Rest tower, adults had lectures by Gray Quarter scholars on nord society. Though not terribly in-depth, these were essentials on nord hierarchy, territory, current leaders, and general summaries of each Hold. There were tips on religious and historical subjects to be aware of and to avoid because of divisive viewpoints. There were quick lessons on nord customs and etiquette. Information to which Holds hosted large dunmer communities (and which Houses dominated each community). Factions to watch for, like the Thalmor (danger, avoid), the Dawnguard (vampire hunters), Silver Hand (werewolf hunters), and the Vigilants of Stendarr (Caution, best avoid. Persecution of any daedra worshipper, the Three included). Of course, there was some words on the nearby Boethiah cult which did nothing to improve the dunmer image in Skyrim.

And at the inn, newcomers could find traditional Morrowind dishes and other dishes that would introduce them to the typical proteins, grains, produce, and spices to be found in the land.

Curtis tried not to think about the fact that he was eating a sausage made from something that used to look like an armored caterpillar with four pincers that scraped slime from the bottom of stagnant pools of swamp water and ate all the little worms that slithered through the muck. Tirenea loved the sausage and ate it with snake blood pudding. Avehan had minced his sausage and added it to a pile of mobile fungus. Like soy sauce poured over a decapitated-at-the-table live octopus, the fungus had a chemical reaction to whatever was in the sauce it sat in and the fronds curled, giving it artificial life and mobility. A large bowl of stir-fried saltrice sat in the middle of the table and was shared.

He had a lot of distraction. Word had gotten out who he was and the jobs in Winterhold so he had a lot of people around him asking him questions about the work. Tirenea also had her own crowd and told them about living in Winterhold and about the College and about her grandfather's position there. It looked like the supply wagons back to Winterhold would be leaving in three days at the head of a caravan of potential workers.

Inevitably, the question came up of where and how he had learned so much of dwarven ingenuity. The story he and Tolfdir had crafted from story bits taken from various Skyrim quests, was that his former self had gotten a hold of a shipment of dwemer stuff and took it with him as he fled Solstheim. To him then it was just more odd-shaped junk with a lot of things that glowed and hummed but he'd probably heard there were people in Skyrim willing to trade gold for the stuff. When the ship he was on went down, well, who knew what happened. All he, Curtis, knew when he "woke" in the icy water was that his head was bleeding, he had a massive headache, and he was going to drown if he didn't find air. He saw gyros and glowing cores and cubes. He had to push past the lot to swim up to the air. After that, when he had time to think was when he realized that he didn't know his own name and that his mind was buzzing with visions of giant machines.

The masters at the College speculated some of those objects may have been special lexicon cubes created to teach or implant knowledge. If so, then it was meant for dwemer minds and may cause unknowable damage to any non-dwemer attempting to use the cubes, such as Curtis forgetting all his former life and name. There was precedent with an argonian researcher driven partially insane when a lexicon cube had forced knowledge into her head.

As for why he used a nord name instead of dunmer? Curtis just shrugged and claimed it was the first thing that came to mind and, as anyone in Winterhold will tell them, he was now only dunmer in looks.

Avehan eventually shooed the crowd away, stating that it was getting late and his charges were obliged to return to Windhelm and they had to catch the last ferry of the night.

"Good crowd," said Curtis. "An engineer and a couple of architects and three accountants there. Hope they do show up for the Winterhold train."

The headed down to the ferry dock. Curtis glanced at the nearby entrance to the Yngol Barrow, remembering the quest there.

"Hold," said Avehan suddenly. Curtis froze, but not before automatically drawing Tirenea closer to protect her. She drew the little knife sheathed on her belt and Curtis was alarmed to see the blade burst into flames.

"Put that back. Let's not give our position away," Curtis told her. She nodded, put the knife back in its sheath but kept her hand wrapped around the hilt. Curtis did likewise with his own belt knife. The Slitter half of his mind was cursing for not have brought the dwarven greatsword recovered from Skytemple Ruins a couple weeks ago.

Curtis started looking around. There was bound to be other people heading to the dock to the ferry. He saw the torches of others, but they were off in the distance.

Avehan's hands went up, power flared and sparked. "Mages!" he barked. Two figures in the darkness. Tirenea suddenly balled up light and threw it at them. It hit the ground and lit up the area. Curtis heard a sound behind them and saw thugs coming out from the trees. They had clubs, no blades drawn. Great. Time to let Slitter have some fun.

He charged one, tackling him to the ground and put him out with a decisive heel- of -hand strike to the jaw. The second club attack he deflected with his arm and went in for another leg tackle. Grasped and rolled to let the second attacker take the downward strike of the third club. And he added an extra temple strike before releasing his spent shield and rolled to his feet to face the third one. This one blocked or danced away to avoid a tackle but then got a mage light globe stuck to his face courtesy of Tirenea. Curtis closed in and quickly double-punched him out.

Avehan had taken care of the mages. By the time Curtis rushed over to help him, Avehan was already recovering his thrown daggers and handaxe and was searching the bodies. He didn't seem the kind to be interested in loot so probably looking for clues. Good idea. Curtis rushed back to the others. They were alive, but unconscious so he'd better work quickly. Three rough-looking nords, low-rent thugs was his guess. Cheap weapons and haphazard armor pieces.

"You left them alive," said Avehan. "Damn. Paperwork." He kicked one body over to face down and efficiently pulled arms around and bound the wrists with a long cord, loop it up and around the neck, and back down to wrists. Avehan tossed Curtis a length and Curtis could feel thick silk threads. Like paracord but probably stronger.

Avehan pulled up a which from around his neck and let out three blasts. In a few seconds a distant three blasts answered him.

"Find any info from the wizards? Nothing on these guys except beer money, which I've confiscated. Hope that was okay."

"Technically, no. But since I found this . . ." Avehan handed him a folded paper. Curtis looked. His reading had come along well enough so that he could read his own description along with instructions to take him to some camp south of Kynesgrove. "I think I can overlook a few missing septims."

"Huh. What are they?" he asked, nodding towards the corpses.

"Bretons. No notable items that I can see that would lead back to their employers."

+—+—+—+—+—+

"The three idiots were hired in Riften," said Ilya. "All they knew was that they were to capture a dark elf and do it without addling your wits or prevent you from talking. At best, they would hold you down and let the mages spell you unconscious."

"Works for me since it let me use my judo because I didn't bring a sword along," said Curtis. She gave him a look that had him sighing. She'd been royally pissed to hear of the attack and had used her Stormblade status to block the nords' appeal to not be held in a dark elf prison or tried by the dark elf magistrate. Three years clearing ice and other blockages in the shit pit of the public latrines was a light sentence considering the social status of the three they'd attacked.

"They were all heading to Winterhold and only heard by chance that you were in Windhelm. Unfortunately, only the mages knew the name of their spies in Winterhold. What little we could extract of their memories of overheard conversations between the mages was that they might have been associated with the Synod and possible further hints that Thalmor have been putting pressure on the Synod to get answers out of Winterhold College."

Curtis shrugged. "Well, I'm sure these mages were just as clueless as their muscle," he said, "in the long run anyway. I sincerely doubt they'd had any insider secrets that they took to the grave with them. And Thalmor are way too easy to suspect and blame. I mean, no doubt they're interested in what's happening in Winterhold but, seriously, all they have to do is like everybody else is doing — just send some fairly smart people to sign up for the work crews and take a lot of notes. It's not like we make every sand shoveler or boatman undergo security and background checks.

"So, no. I don't believe the Thalmor want to bring me in. I mean, if I'm delivered to them I don't think they'll refuse, but it's easier just to let me do my thing and then pressure the Synod to pester Winterhold for info under the guise of academic exchanges. These mages sound like the kind of low-level idiots trying to pull off a heist to impress somebody so that they can get in on their organization. Like, oh, like petty thieves thinking that their own little crime spree would get them an invitation and some rank in the Thieves Guild."

Ilya finally laughed. "Maybe. All right, that sounds likely. And Master Tolfdir already keeps watch on the student spies.

"But I still fear the Thalmor. They may think it's easier to learn knowledge from you by letting you run free of their control, but they'll kill you out of sheer pettiness if they think you're teaching anything that would challenge their belief in their superiority."

"I got that. I know you got a lot more experience than me, Ilya, and I really do respect that. The idea that I'm worth kidnapping for my brains is something I'd never thought possible. Can't let that stop me, though. You know that. Can't let the Thalmor win."

She sighed. "Of course not. So you'll stop fussing about having a bodyguard?"

"Yes, I'll stop acting like a baby about it."

Page 7 of 7


	17. Chapter 17 In Other Words

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****17****:**** In Other Words**

The Bat Cave was impressive. Curved walls of bonemold, very Morrowind. Some furniture pieces were Dwemer. Curtis had always been disappointed that Game players weren't permitted to take Dwemer furniture to use in player homes. He didn't need urns or cups or plates. He coveted the fancy golden chairs and dressers and shelves. He loved the Dwemer spider table with its really nice, expensive glass table top.

This place was underground and built below the Cornerclub with a door made to resemble part of the wall stonework of the basement of Sadri's establishment. Savela's manner as she'd brought him here conveyed that this was not a place open to just any visitor, so Curtis was properly appreciative of the honor. Somehow, he knew that this was Sadri's place. His wife, the Dragonborn, had all the other properties that he managed through all her housecarls, but this office was his private man cave and held things that he valued.

The first thing Curtis had seen as the fake wall was opened was the niche on the opposite wall with shelves holding miscellaneous items. He also saw the cushion and low table before it where candles and offerings could be set and then understood that this was a shrine. He'd read about it in a Morrowind game book, _The Waiting Door_. A place whereby the family ancestor ghosts were welcome and could come and go. Center of the room was a small ash garden with ash yams. Beyond that, along the same wall, were three more shrines. The weird feathered snake swallowing a sword was Akatosh, the anvil was Zenithar, and the last — hey, that was a new one — an owl perched on a pyramid.

"So, Sadri knows Jhunal," Curtis said aloud.

"How do you know him?" asked Savela, eyes wide with curiosity. "Master found him on Solstheim, an old god from the Skaal who said he used to be a god of their Atmoran ancestors. I'm told there are still some Nord cults that worship their Ancestor Gods and reject the Nine of the Empire and Altmer.

"I know him 'cuz he's the reason I'm here. He brought me back to life when I'd died." He grinned with a touch of self-mockery. "I'm his champion."

"Truly?" Savela's eyes were wide in astonishment. They'd talked a couple more times since their first meeting, and she now felt more comfortable around him. And while he was disappointed that she'd declined a leading role in nutritional research, he knew he'd gotten an unexpected prize of an ace administrator and fund-raiser. "He's a most curious god, is he not? I do like him and I'm quite eager to earn more about him."

The room temperature was hotter than the rest of the building. He shed his coat and looked for a place to hang it. Savela gestured to a bar hanging just behind the door. Curtis gaped in astonishment as he recognized the Wabbajack. "Yes, that's where you can hang your coat," affirmed Savela blithely.

"You do know what that is, don't you?"

"Is it something special?" She glanced at the staff and shrugged. "It's just something the master brought back from Solitude."

"Hah! You only get that swizzle stick if you survived having drinks with the Joker Prince himself." He looked around for somewhere to sit. The lounge chairs near next to the spider table looked comfortable. "So, uh, where's Master Sadri now?"

"I do apologize on his behalf, sera. Jarl Ulfric summoning him back to Whiterun was quite unexpected, and the master has been inundated with demands to meet before he can leave the city. I am certain he will be here soon." She set down a tea tray and sat opposite him. "Do you mind if I ask you questions about Jhunal?"

"I don't mind, but, honestly, I know almost absolutely nothing. Once you get to Winterhold and its library, then you'll know as much as me. And I've never really talked to the god. The only one I've talked to is Savos, his 'Mouth' I guess, and who was also the former Archimage before the Dragonborn. Master Revyn knows tons more than I do."

"Oh, I see," she said, faintly disappointed. "I had the honor of meeting Archimage Aren before he took up residence on Solstheim. But he was ill at the time and spent most of his time talking with the Master. I had the tale from the Master of how Savos Aren gave his life to gain Jhunal's entrance into Apocrypha. So, you say he is now Jhunal's Mouth; he serves the god."

"Seems so. Seems to have snagged the job as courier. I wonder if it's also because he's the first mer to the Atmoran god's flock."

She nodded. "I hope he has found the peace he desired." Curtis nodded. When he'd played Skyrim, he'd always favored the Warrior route. He'd joined the College once because he'd wanted to complete the Gauldur Amulet quest. His younger brother was the Wizard, and from him he knew that Savos Aren had desperately conceived a plan to trap a dragonpriest in its tomb. Unfortunately, it depended on him successfully backstabbing two friends and damning them to eternal combat with the dragonpriest. That is, until the Dragonborn freed their souls to get at the dragonpriest and the Quest Object staff it was holding.

Revyn Sadri arrived soon after. "Apologies, Sera Curtis, for my tardiness. Savela. If you please?"

She promptly nodded to Curtis. "I'll see you later, sera," she said and left the room.

"Thank you for meeting me here on such short notice," said Sadri, and got right to the point, which told Curtis that there was something going on he probably didn't want to know about. "I know your group is returning to Winterhold tomorrow morning, and the attempted capture of yourself and trial of your captors has wasted much of your time. And then all the people who want to know about your work and about Skytemple. But this attempt was not just because of Skytemple, but because you yourself are an interesting commodity. Unfortunately, it's not going to get any easier if my sources are correct. And with so many spies working in Winterhold, keeping Skytemple a secret will be impossible. But, for as long as possible, we want this to be seen as an exciting excavation of a long-hidden, intact Dwemer laboratory. If there are living souls, then they need to be gone quickly to the last Falmer enclave hidden in the mountains between High Rock and Haafingar."

"'Gone quickly,' how? I mean, I know you're thinking of their safety, but these are people that are going to be waking into a totally alien world. Everything they knew is 5000 years gone. Keeping 'em sane will be hard enough if they stayed in the College. And being a mixed bunch of Falmer and Dwemer and then faced with what one of them did to the other . . ."

"I understand and I grieve for the pain they will feel," interrupted Sadri. "Thalmor won't care. A lot of people won't care. Most Nords would only sympathize by putting them out of their misery and establish once and for all that 'Skyrim is for the Nords.'"

"Man, that's harsh," Curtis muttered.

"Yes. We both know Nords who do not share that sentiment. And we remember them because they are the exception to public opinion. And the conservative Nords have just won a victory and their freedom from the Empire. Do you think they will let go of their newfound surety of their pride and power to care about the hurt feelings of the previous mer landowners who, by all rights, should be long dead?"

"I got it, I got it. But it still sucks balls."

"Yes. And I would be very careful about bringing up Molag Bal's name. It's only very recently his grip in the Reach has been loosened. And there are still vampire Falmer roaming the underground depths of the Vale."

"No, I meant . . ." Curtis stopped, thinking about it, and realizing the other hadn't misunderstood, just twisted the words to yet another warning. Yeah, there was violation going on here, and it was a particularly dark, haunted, and dangerous House the sleeping captives would have to be extracted from.

And there was no way in hell any of it could be sugar-coated and made easier. They were gonna bleed.

"OK. Soon as we wake 'em, we move 'em. Gonna arrange a ship or do we march 'em through Blackreach?"

"I can arrange for a ship," said Sadri. "Fast and with mages so that it's shielded from detection from any of the Thalmor naval ships that have been sneaking around the north coast."

"Northwatch Keep would be closest port," mumbled Curtis. "And a hard march from there through the upper Reach. Hopefully, no more Thalmor patrols."

"Worry about that later," advised Sadri. "You have enough to consider currently. By the time you leave I will have a packet for you to give to Tolfdir and Urag. And one for Ralis who will be there to watch Gelebor's back.

"Now, the reason I asked you here is that I am told you have questions about your role as Jhunal's Champion and that I may somehow be able to assist you."

"Says who?" That came out automatically, and Curtis instantly knew the mer had heard it as a rude challenge by the way his lips had tightened.

"A rather large bird told me, sera. However, if you think different —"

"No, no! I wasn't dissing — I mean, I didn't mean any disrespect, dismissal, or, uh, dishonor. I am not saying you wouldn't be able to give me good advice. I know better. I know you got the dope — You know a lot of, uh, hidden, maybe even forbidden, knowledge. Confidential stuff, I mean."

"Ah, I misunderstood. Forgive me. Of late, I've had . . . Well, that isn't important and has nothing to do with you.

"Savos or Jhunal think I may be able to help you, but they didn't tell me what I was supposed to be helping with. I understand you have many good friends at the College, so I do wonder what I could add that they cannot."

"Maybe that right there." Curtis edged up in his chair and sat forward. "They talk to you. Not in your dreams, right? Like they do me. One dream anyway. And I'm supposed to be Jhunal's Champion. So, what the heck does that mean? And there's no priest of Jhunal that I can consult, you know. Maybe get some feedback on what Jhunal might want. But I hear gods and ghosts talk to you. Everybody around here says you're the real deal."

"Ah." Sadri sat there, eyes downcast, thinking.

Curtis sat back to wait. He'd been told by Urag that Sadri was a reluctant mystic, that he had a lot of untrained power potential. Yet, even if he had been interested in training, the College had nothing to offer him because Mysticism was no longer taught as its own unique art. Its teachings had been divided between Illusion, Alteration, and Restoration. It was also because Sadri's mindset took a more spiritualistic approach to power, and that was more the purview of the priesthood. The College, a very secular institution, would not deal in that approach (although Curtis knew many of its members were themselves religious, and it was only because they could put aside the conflicting parts of their personal religions that they could make the College work).

"Just continue to do what you do," said Sadri at last. "Jhunal went to the trouble of searching other . . . other worlds beyond Aetherius for you. Not just because of your skills, I think, but because your nature, your own motivations align you to his purpose. All he had to do was place you in a time and place where you would have most effect and then let you go about your business.

"As for a priest, I do believe one will come along, eventually. I have the feeling that Jhunal will make the most of his tenure as a Daedric Prince and intends to come out of Julianos's shadow. Hermaeus Mora will eventually reclaim his realm, but by then I believe Jhunal will have firmly re-established his own religion, likely among the mer since the Nords rejected him."

Sadri stood up and gestured for him to rise. He led Curtis over to the owl shrine. "Take this with you," he said. "I can have another one made since the crafter still has the mold. Make a shrine somewhere for him. I'm not asking you to assume the duties of a priest, but if people ask, just tell them who he is, and that this is your way of thanking him for saving your life. That's all. Curiosity will do the rest.

"And, Curtis, I think you might want to be careful of what you ask of Jhunal. He could not have taken over Apocrypha if his nature would not allow it."

"How so?" asked Curtis.

Sadri was quiet a long while and his gaze was fixated on the owl god. Curtis recognized the mer was in processing mode. He could practically see the animated "busy" icon overhead.

Finally Sadri looked at him, and his expression was one of utter confusion. "Jhunal says his followers number ten: those that understand and everyone else?"

Curtis thought carefully about it. The daedric symbol for ten . . . A neuron tripped.

In other words, Sheogorath wasn't the only Joker Prince around. If he went all the way back to the familiar Indo-Arabic forms of his past life, and to those jokes and songs and the work his brother so loved — _"Calm down, it's only ones and zeros. Calm down, it's only bits and bytes." _Ones and zeros. Close and open. On and off. "Shit. OWLs. That's also a language for computers for processing web info where I come from. Fucking geeks jokes from the daedric dark web."


	18. Chapter 18 Snowmer

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****18****:**** Snow Elf**

In vanilla game Skyrim he could only recall three books about the Falmer, one was "_Ghosts in the Storm"_ written by that guy in Windhelm who needed his latest epic, "_Olaf and the Dragon"_ delivered to the Bards College in Solitude; another book was "_The Falmer: A Study"_ that was lying on a table in The Frozen Hearth in Winterhold; and then "_Fall of the Snow Prince"_ that he'd read while touring the Dwemer museum in Markarth. They were tough, eyeless, cannibalistic little goblins, the bane of every underground explorer.

Knight-Paladin Gelebor was no sickly pallid twisted goblin. He definitely was not one of Santa's elves either. His albino-like complexion and ears were distinct from an Altmer. Curtis found it interesting that there was no "pinkness" tinting his skin. Face it, white folks were on the pink side or had blue or pink tracings if sickly pale and thin skinned. Or, if not sunburnt pink, a lot of variations between brown and pink. Mer, he knew, still bled red. Gelebor, however, white as fresh snow with only the faintest pink in the inner corners of his eyes and, yeah, a pink tongue as he watched the mer eating. He was also certain this mer wouldn't tan no matter how much sunlight he was exposed to. Hm, and his hair was that fluffy, stand-up troll doll hair that only the mer races in the Game had.

The dinner was held in the Archimage's quarters. Colette, Baladas, and Calcelmo had already met with the Falmer when he'd arrived in Winterhold days ago. This dinner was to introduce him to Curtis, Scouts-the-Deep, Drains-the-Swam, Fish-Breath, and the Morrowind engineers, Darylin Hlaselo and Sunalam Hlaadu. Aside from Curtis, the others had never been underground, exploring where they shouldn't be, and battling Falmer. Sorry, "The Betrayed." Well, in all honesty, Curtis could also count himself in that category of non-underground explorers; he was pretty sure virtual exploration and combat via computer screen didn't count as real-world experience. Anyway, this dinner was also to impress on the Argonians and the new Dunmer the importance of secrecy on the Skytemple project.

Curtis kept his distance, letting the Argonians and the other two Dunmer do most of the questioning. He just wanted to observe the Snowmer. Guess that was to be their official name now — by Gelebor's choice — using the Nord tongue. "Falmer" was snow elf in Aldmeris. "Od-fahlil" was snow elf in Dovahzul. So Snowmer it is. He kept thinking over the stories Revyn Sadri had told him about the Auriel's Bow quest and the dead wayshrine priests. He observed the Knight-Paladin and tried in vain to imagine nearly 5000 years of isolation and vigil. Talk about the Last Crusader of the first Indiana Jones movie (and that crusader knight was only, what, 400 to 500 years)! How the hell did one remain sane? How the hell does one keep faith that long?

Not total, absolute isolation. Curtis understood from Sadri's stories that occasional adventurers or refugees had entered Gelebor's lonely world. Still, the adventurers died adventuring. And the refugees that needed temporary shelter, if they tried to come back, may or may not find the Snowmer if he felt their return visit unnecessary or dangerous.

"You should talk to him," said Colette. "Why are you holding back? We'd all prepared him to be assaulted by your strange questions. Even Urag restrained himself to let you have first go."

"Aw, hell, girl, shoulda told me before I got here I was supposed to be the heavy," he drawled, grinning. But his grin faded fast and, more serious now, he asked her, "So, now that you've had a little time to observe our friend here, have you thought about giving him a thorough examination? You think about my theory about misdirected healing magic?"

That had been a conversation months ago. Curtis had proposed that the Falmer had unknowingly contributed to their own mutation by instinctively using healing magic on each other after the Dwemer had blinded and enslaved them. The mushroom poisons were killing their babies and the parents had naturally responded by using their magic to stabilize and keep viable their children. And every generation had their mutations. The Dwemer culled the ones too violent, too intelligent, too stupid, too physically warped to be functioning slaves. Eventually, time and biologic imperative found a "final form" that could survive gestation and birth without the use of magic and could dependably reproduce without too many mutations, at steep cost to their minds and souls. The Falmers souls were now no better than animal souls. Intelligence had likewise mutated to — what? — an "instinctual intelligence" for lack of a better word. Curtis couldn't think of any word that described a creature that had gone beyond stupid and out the other side as being incredibly smart for something with minimal verbal language skills and no written skills. How else does one find enchanter stations and alchemy stations in a Falmer hive? How do they tame and train chaurus? How do these same creatures capture and enslave surface dwellers as evidenced in Blackreach?

Colette had been repulsed by the whole idea. She didn't know what thalidomide babies were and had been horrified and disgusted when Curtis had explained. But she had reluctantly conceded that such mutations could be made viable and, eventually, naturally repeatable by the constant application of Restoration magic in the early stages of change.

"Unfortunately, I have been thinking about it since," said Colette, looking faintly sick. "I've even gotten in contact with my teachers. They're as repulsed about the whole idea as I am." Colette's teachers in Kvatch had been Altmer priests of Akatosh. Originally from Summerset, she'd told him. She must have really been bothered to look them up, Curtis concluded, because from what she'd told him, they'd gone into hiding since the Great War. "But doing a study as you've suggested would require live Falmer subjects."

Curtis thought about the cages in the Midden. If they had to capture live mutant Falmer . . .

"Pay attention, Curtis. Here he comes."

Damn, the mer was tall. Curtis wondered if Gelebor was the typical build for the Falmer or body builder class. Pale silver-blue eyes focused on him. Curtis's heart twisted. The soul-deep weariness was to be expected. It was the desperate hope therein that scared him.

"Champion, I've traveled so far to meet you and your god."

Fuck. Playground tutorial time was over. Time to get real and figure out the main quest.

X—X—X—X—X—X—X

Cleanup and repair of the lower levels was going well despite the good-natured grumblings of some of the engineers and researchers who found scraping away barnacles and patching and shoring up walls a touch beneath their skill level. But, since work crews were limited to absolute minimum for security reasons . . .

At least he had persuaded Baladas to help with the grunt work, to use his magic to reinforce ground structure and fast-dry the place. It was also important to keep Baladas away in the initial stages because Curtis agreed with Calcelmo's style of excavation, which followed the careful preservation and documentation practices that Curtis was more familiar with. Baladas was more the dig right in and start manipulating things then document after the fact, so Curtis persuaded Baladas to accept compensation for his patience by having first crack at interrogating Gelebor about Snow Elf wayshrine magic. Gelebor denied being any sort of competent mage, but as a knight-paladin of a temple, he had to learn specialized magic to better guard the shrines and repair them as needed.

One of the orders he'd recently brought back from Windhelm was an instrument to measure the power level in a soulgem. It was a Clockwork City portable adaptation of a part of a larger, immobile Dwemer soulgem extractor machine. This little device was designed only to measure the power left in a partially drained soulgem or if a soulgem was inadequately charged. It did not harvest souls. Once they had that, Darylin and Sunalam began testing the gems in the giant computer boards and repairing the inlay conduit lines once Curtis had explained what he knew of computer boards, which wasn't much. But since the engineers were merely following along prelaid traces and not laying new lines ("ley lines" — was that thing in Skyrim?), they did fine.

As they did that, Curtis focused on the HVAC system. Curtis started working on quick-patching damaged sections of the HVAC system in the rooms the researchers were working in.

"Oh, that's so much better," said Aicantar, Calcelmo's nephew. "Now it doesn't feel like we're working in the center of the hottest swamp in Black Marsh."

"Pretty hard to take notes when you're sweating on them," agreed Curtis. He stepped back from the ventilation pipe he'd finished welding patch plates onto.

He looked around at the inked whiteboards that Aicantar was copying and then through the stacks of notes (with Aicantar's permission, of course). The mer was a damn good quick-sketch artist. He'd gotten the room from different angles and items placed and with detailed notes of colors, what materials he could identify, and other stuff. Since meeting him, Curtis's respect for him was even a touch greater than he had for Calcelmo. Hey, photographic documentation was some of the best types of documentation. And if you didn't have a camera, then you needed to get a quick-draw artist on your team.

"You got skills, man, a real gift," said Curtis as he tapped the notes back into a neat stack. "Which room are you tackling next? Now that we're getting the air system and power kinks worked out, I'd like to know which rooms get priority.

"Ah, I'll need to consult my uncle to make sure, but I should think the terrarium so that Marat can start tidying up the plants and setting up for the alchemist Savela is bringing in. And the forge and tool rooms, where uncle is currently working, for certain."

"Got it. Anything else here I can do for you before I leave?"

"Thank you, no. Just being able to breathe comfortably is exactly what I needed."

He went to where Calcelmo and his assistants were working. "Patching pipes," he told the scholar. "I'm going to look the forge over next unless you've got something else you'd rather I look at."

"I need another assistant to take notes," grunted Calcelmo.

"Take notes, type 'em up, and keep 'em organized assistant?"

"A competent scribe, yes."

"You talk to Savela?"

"That little Dunmer girl you brought back? I thought you were setting her up to be some sort of money manager for this project."

"Money manager, people manager, and program administrator second to Master Tolfdir," Curtis clarified. "She got her business training under the best. Steward Sadri of Windhelm. He's released her from apprenticeship so she could work with us."

Calcelmo paused from his work and straightened up to face Curtis. "Sadri's apprentice you say? I wonder. If she's even half as devious and resourceful as her master . . ." He nodded abruptly. "Good. I'll talk with her later then."

Curtis went back to examining the ventilation pipes. With all the broken pipes, the HVAC system was pretty much screwed. Right now, forging new pipes out of scavenged Dwemer metals or the local iron was impractical. They just didn't have enough experienced metal workers in Winterhold whereas there were master bonemold smiths here and in Windhelm. Maybe subbing in bonemold pipes, like using PVC pipes, might limp the system along.


	19. Chapter 19 Preach It

_A/N: Curtis preaching. You have been warned._

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****19****:**** Preach It**

Now that the Stormcloak Alliance was a reality, Jarl Korir demanded a Temple of Talos be built as well as a new Jarl's Hall, and he demanded all the Nord talent and crafters for his project. There was a bit of a struggle there, actually, as he paid less than what the Shoreline Reclamation project did. But, recognizing political and religious priorities, the Argonian project leaders were willing to work out schedule kinks with those Nords who were being pressured to to work for the Jarl.

For his part to help, Curtis found a herbaceous sujamma version of a jagermeister, and he'd mixed that into cold-brewed kafe beans he'd bought from the Khajiit's at Windhelm, then he'd engaged the Jarl in an evening of drinking the stuff. Between shots he worked the idea with Jarl Korir that relying on the orphans to do the work under the guidance and tutelage of master builders would not just let them learn a trade but also, by their Jarl's evident faith in their abilities, would teach them pride in their culture, heritage, etc. More importantly, it would also cement a new generation's loyalty to their Jarl. By the next morning, despite the hangover, the Jarl's ego was now invested in creating a trade school to prove that while Winterhold was not rich with mineral resources or crop growing land, it more than made up for it with an abundance non-magical clever crafters. Savela quickly organized with the leaders among the orphans a grand show of gratitude for the Jarl's patronage and unprecedented generosity of opportunity.

This also reminded Curtis he needed a shrine for Jhunal. He got permission from the Jarl to carve out a small grotto in the slope behind the Jarl's chicken coop. Nothing fancy, he planned for a just a stone lined grotto with statue and pedestal at the back and a standing height writing-desk at the front.

"Yeah, a writing desk. Jhunal was a god of knowledge. Sister Hawk taught Man to speak, and Brother Owl taught Man to write because it was important to be able to convey and preserve knowledge without relying too much on memories, especially when speakers can die. Life's hard, y'know. People die, and it's a sad fact that, more often than not, a lot of things are left unsaid. Maybe for the better in some cases . . .

"Anyways, he taught mathematics over magic as the key to understanding the world and to building. When he said 'power of the mind,' he wasn't talking about magic; he meant strengthening our ability to observe, to reason, to comprehend, and then demonstrate the summation of all that to make changes in ourselves and the world," Curtis mused aloud to the people helping him dig out and shore up the grotto and to the people watching them. "He wasn't all about magic, like, magic-magic. He meant the magic of, well, like transformational growth. Think of a baby, all the little bundles of potential, one day they're unfocused, drooling little creatures that can barely lift their heads, then another day they talk and say 'mama,' and they're stumbling around to explore the world. Then the little babe grabs that knife you accidentally left on a stool; you're terrified they'll stumble and impale themselves; then sometime later they're the best swordsman, or the best carver of wood or leather or stone. Or they've discovered fire and with that little knife they're cooking a meal fit for the gods. Ordinary miracles, ordinary magics, if you want to call it that. Some talent, a lot of training, a lot of hands-on experience.

"Now, I know that sounds like Zenithar. Well, yeah, there's some overlap there. It's all about taking skills you've managed to learn and bringing them with you as you go out in the world. When you say, 'knowledge is power,' well, that can be applied to anything, not just magic. Come on! A good war leader needs to know his own people's skills and needs info on the opposition's forces. A good merchant has got to know the value of their goods and how to play the market. Any good craftsman who works in wood or stone or iron or what-have-you has got to know the nature of the material he's working with; has to have its measure. That's a word-game right there, you see, Jhunal was big on mathematics, on creating means of measuring up the world — the length of days, the length of seasons, weighing the decision of whether to plant now or wait a few days more.

"Staying ignorant means you get nowhere. And Jhunal is an owl because owls are night hunters, meaning ignorance is like stumbling around in the dark. The hawk won't fly at night. The eagle won't fly at night. No bird but the owl dares to take the sky when the sun goes down."

Eyes roll. Inevitably, comes the challenges: "Why does a Dunmer care about a forgotten Atmoran god?" and "How do you know so much about this owl god?" and "Isn't Jhunal just another name for Julianos?" and, finally, "Aren't you just a thug from Raven Rock? What are you doing over here blathering about a forgotten bird god of the Nords?"

"Because he saved my life and dumped me here," and "Actually, the College rediscovered him when they were searching for a solution to some problem on Solstheim that involved Hermaeus Mora, and they found that Jhunal was Mora's ancient enemy from Atmora, back when Mr. Grabby Tentacles was the demon in the woods called 'the Woodland Man,'" and "You would think so, but no, and Julianos couldn't kick Hermaeus Mora's butt like Jhunal did," and, finally, "Now, that's a good one. Have you heard of reincarnation? I ain't no Nerevarine, but the original guy in Raven Rock died, and I died somewhere else. Jhunal snatched my soul out of the void and put me in a new body. No idea what happened to this body's previous owner. Sounds more like Sheogorath, yeah? It's insane and I won't argue about that. I'm just happy to be alive. And, like I said, I promised him I'd put up a shrine as a thank you. After that, I do what I do and he's cool with that."

And then he added, "Of course, I could be just messing with y'all, but I don't consider that kind of joke worth busting my ass here when I could be inside having a good drink and cooking up a pot of clam chowder."

Helping him with the build was Ilya, Restorations student and bodyguard, and Elden, the Nord dive team leader for the Shoreline Reclamation Project and Curtis's "apprentice" when he wasn't diving, and that mysterious, albino-like "Altmer" newcomer to the College.

"Are you going to be priest for the owl god, ser?" asked Elden.

Curtis laughed. "Nope. Deal was, I'd build the shrine, but he'd have to find someone else to do the preaching. I'm sure one will wander in soon. I admit, I'm curious to see what kind of person he'll pick as his first priest since the Alduin's priests burned the last bunch in Atmora."

A lot of questions about that.

"The story, as I heard it, Ysgramor and his bunch left Atmora because of all the religious wars. Alduin doing his, 'I'm the only god of this world' thing. So it only follows that his followers were busy slaughtering all the priests and shamans of the other gods. Y'know, killing the competition."

"My ma's grandda was a follower of the Old Ones," said Elden. "He used to make offerings to Kyne, to Shor. He used to tell me when I was little not to wander too far into the woods because the Woodland Man was out there and, if he found me, I'd never never see home again. Woodland Man likes to confuse people he finds. Keeps them running circles in the forest until they die from exhaustion or starvation."

"Yup. That's Herma-Mora. Nowadays, the woods are paper, and he hunts people looking for answers, gets 'em confused with so many false leads until they lose their minds, and their souls are trapped in Apocrypha. Same demon, same method, just a slightly different medium."

"Woodland Man would find slim pickings here," said Elden, "We've got Falmer demons in the snowstorms. They'll pick off anyone lost hereabouts before Woodland Man can find them."

The pale elf sighed.

"Is Jhunal to be the new god at the College, him being for learning and all?" asked Elden.

"Not really. Again, Jhunal isn't about magic. You see, Zenithar is about learning and mastering a trade. Jhunal takes it a bit further, like, mastering a trade is fine, but can you take it further and apply what you know in other places? Like, you mastered your skill. Can you teach it? You're a good house builder. Now someone wants you to design and build a house on a floating platform, or in the branches of a stout tree, off the side of a cliff. Someone asks you to look at an exposed ant hill, can you, as a builder of homes, identify why the ants built their nests like they do? Why does a bee build a hive like it does? Is this what a housebuilder does? You wouldn't think so. Mostly not. But are you sure there isn't some principles of knowledge you've mastered that couldn't be used to understand parts of the world you've never seen or considered before? Like the Argonians master builders — the coast of Winterhold is nothing like the deep lakes and coastal waters of Black Marsh, but they've mastered the principles of their craft and are able to assimilate the different environment and adapt their techniques, even invent new ones to match the challenges of an unfamiliar land. Coast. Whatever."

"Don't underplay your part in their success," said Ilya. "Neither they nor the Dunmer engineers would be as successful without you explaining mysteries they had no experience with."

"Yeah. But it goes both ways. Without their skills to back me, everybody would just think I'm a lunatic."

"Well . . ." Ilya drawled.

The basic dig out and shoring didn't take more than a couple days. What took the longest was for stone carvers to mine and shape the stone slabs to fit the curve of the grotto and to carve on the surfaces ancient Atmoran runes for _knowledge, exploration, discovery, insight, wisdom, courage,_ and so on.

Jhunal's acceptance in the general populace of Winterhold was helped by an unexpected source.

"Jhunal's return is good," declared Olve Tera, the Talos priest Jarl Korir had found at the Moot in Whiterun. Olve was one of the renegade preachers that had been wandering around the camps daring to preach despite the presence of the Empire and of the Dominion. He was from one of the older, isolated tribes of Nords and his command of Common Imperial was a bit rough. "Old god. God of truth-seekers, god of hunters of knowing. God that says think before you act, think of what you have learned, be bold to learn more. Julianos is elf god, not a bad god, another god of learning. But Jhunal," he thumped is heart, "ours."

Curtis poured him another iced sujamma and kafe mix. He liked the old priest. While he was cautious of elves, he didn't outright hate on 'em. And it was nice of him to declare his endorsement of Jhunal to the crowd in the Frozen Hearth. This was another public project meeting where the Argonian project leaders let anyone who was interested know the official progress report on the project to rebuild Winterhold's shoreline and port.

Curtis had asked, but Olve wasn't interested in being priest to more than one god. He did say, though, that he'd happily help any new priest that dared come forward. That was good. He also wanted Curtis to dig out a similar grotto for Talos. No need for any grand structure he declared, to Jarl Korir's dissatisfaction.

"Grotto first. Build what need for now, not waste time with empty boast. Build Jarl's Hall, build harbor, build school. When city strong, when city again first hold of Skyrim, then glory to Talos.

* * *

_**GalacticHalfling:**_ Chemical-induced mutations plus biological imperative . . . "Life finds a way."

_**A Week Of Sundays**_**:** Thanks. Likewise, stay healthy. And now, Sundas school.

_**Guest**_**:** (who will probably never see this) *Laughs* Doing the Carlton Dance back into the NW rainforest to hunt for more mushrooms and avoiding all the malignant E.L.F.s lurking therein


	20. Chapter 20 What Do You See?

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

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**Chapter ****20****:**** What Do You See?  
**(revised)

According to one of the maps on the walls of the forge laboratory, there was an important item located in the Dwemer temple to Xrib located north and a couple degrees east of the Falmer's Sun's Glory Temple.

Working it out on the map, Curtis figured Sun's Glory was now the Dragon Cult temple on Mount Anthor. The Temple of Xrib, then, was the Skyrim dungeon, the Sightless Pit.

The device was a special music box (Calcelmo's literal interpretation of the name) that coordinated or conducted the various operations of the different soulgem boards they were repairing.

In other words, it was a secondary master CPU that had been constructed and stored off-site in case the primary CPU at Skytemple failed. Yeah, the CPU at Skytemple was barely functioning and parts of it melted.

Unfortunately, Curtis's memory of the Sightless Pit run was almost non-existent except for two things, one, it had no Word wall so it really wasn't of any interest except as a points grinder and two, once you dropped in (no ladder, no stairs, no elevator, you jumped off the pit edge and down onto a series of large pipes or ledges along the drop) you had no choice but to do the whole run if you wanted to leave.

But, if the Dragonborn had explored that cave, might the exit be unbarred and available for use for direct access to the main temple?

Actually, yes. Urag had her map and her notes in the secured "Archimage or Tolfdir authorization required" collection. The Archimage documented her explorations. Tolfdir gave Curtis permission for onetime access to the Dragonborn travel diaries, which were rich with maps and notes and stories and ideas for songs.

Yes! The primary temple layout was here, more rooms than in Game, and he hoped to gods the rooms marked as "collapsed" weren't the rooms with valuable stuff. The four intact "equipment/machine storage rooms" looked promising and worth the risk.

They had to be. They didn't have the know-how or time to figure how to jury-rig the failing CPU.

So, the team would be himself, Ilya, Gelebor, Sgt. Beck, and Aicantar. Curtis wanted this to be a sneak-in/sneak-out mission rather than stomp in with half the returning Winterhold Stormcloak army. Not unless his intention was the wholesale slaughter of anything living down there and the place being put to the torch, was Ilya's warning.

Their armors were enchanted with sneak and muffle and poison resistance spells. They had darts dipped in paralysis drugs. They had magic night-vision goggles. They had individual whistles that each sounded different so they knew who was signaling. For Ilya and Beck, they had ear cups attached to their helmets to amplify sounds. And to carry the CPU out, if they found it, was a floating platform enchanted by Mage-Lord Baladas that could carry up to 300 pounds. That would be the CPU and any number of interesting stuff, or the CPU and an injured body, or two injured bodies. It was too bad he couldn't come with them, but he had business with the Archimage somewhere in the Rift.

Tolfdir had the spell to remove the seal that had been set there by the Archimage so he came with them as far as the small exit cave and to the lift doors. After unsealing the door, he and J'zargo were going to explore the outside area, most especially the altar high above the cave.

As the lift descended, Curtis hoped there wouldn't be a reception party waiting. The machine wasn't noiseless and, after all these eons, there was crackling and squealing and rattling. He could tell just by the grinding that this device was not going to work much longer without some serious servicing. He just hoped it worked one more time, like, to get them out of here. Should the lift stop during ascent or not even work at all, there was a service hatch in the ceiling, not that it would matter anyway because the three lift cables were inaccessible. He figured the Dwemer probably used levitation spells to rescue stranded passengers. At least they could climb out of the lift and send a signal up to where Beck's son, Elden and two of Elden's friends, were camping in the cave above with a long rope ladder.

The lift thumped down. Beck and Ilya put up their shields. Curtis and Aicantar aimed paralysis staves out the sides. Gelebor was center and aiming his ethereal bound bow through the gap between the shields.

Gelebor's arrows thrummed out, the ghostly and faintly luminescent arrows were sufficient light sources for their night vision goggles. The arrows illuminated the two warlords, a spellcaster, the chaurus armored pincer forms, and the acid-spitting mosquitoes. Curtis and Aicantar sent energy blasts following after the glowing arrows to drop them all. More ethereal arrows sprayed out and lit the areas where they landed.

Ilya and Beck and Gelebor went further out from the central altar to look for anything still hiding in the dark. Aicantar set a sleep spell on the paralyzed Falmer and Curtis bound them, wrist to ankles then tight around the waist for the armored ones because the edges of those armors were sharp and he didn't want them cutting their ropes on the edges. Then he gagged the three of them to prevent them from spellcasting. As he gagged the spellcaster, he was surprised to realize it was a female, flat-chested and only wearing a loincloth. The backswept horns he was used to seeing in the Game was actually thick hair bound to form horns. Huh. He'd never really paid that much attention when gaming. Now, up close, he wondered if all the Falmer spellcasters were women.

Beck whistled. Curtis spun around, tense, but it was only two blasts, so not an emergency. One whistle was, "I'm here" or "checking in," two blasts was "not in danger, but someone come here," and three, of course, "HELP!" Gelebor responded with one whistle as he was nearest. Within minutes, Gelebor was jogging out of the darkness.

"Curtis, there are children here."

"What?"

"There are a dozen children hiding in two tents. Their food is still fresh so I think they were just recently gathered here for those three to watch while the parents are working. We need to find the device and get out. No time to let Aicantar do any documenting."

"Well, shit." Curtis grimaced. During the planning, Gelebor had raised this possible situation. Curtis had really been hoping that the Falmer would be sensible and have their nursery in a smaller, better protected and warmer and drier area. Or, it could be that this area was the most structurally stable area if they were afraid of tunnels collapsing. In any case, Gelebor was right and they didn't have time to do any research work before the parents came back. "Aicantar, put 'em to sleep. Gelebor, you and Beck patrol the entrances."

He went and found Ilya and they began searching the four mapped storerooms. The Archimage had already looted any valuables (if there would actually be any in reality. Curtis always found it stupid that in the depths of a Dwemer ruin, thousands of years supposedly untouched, there would sometimes be pristine copies of modern books and unspoilt potions or fully-charged magical items).

They were looking for something that looked like a Star Trek Borg Cube, a cubic yard in size, and a little over a hundred pounds in weight. The gods were being nice. They found one and it appeared intact. Curtis also grabbed two brightly glowing dynamo cores which would fit into an internal compartment in the cube. They loaded the cube and anything else Curtis felt was interesting onto the floating platform.

There were no more surprises. The lift worked without a problem and squeaked all the way up to the surface. They had the CPU, a bunch of interesting devices to examine at leisure, and Aicantar had still managed to quick-sketch Falmer armor, some of the children, and the distillery table and enchanting table that was in the spellcaster's hut. Curtis again noted that the Skyrim Game, all the equipment looked alike. But down here, the table frames were made of Dwemer metal and the vials and bottles of the alchemy table were something other than blown glass. The enchanting table's surface had engraved on it, according to Aicantar, Merethic Era schools of magic that have been lost or redefined through the ages. He was unhappy they didn't have the time to find a way to unbolt the tables from the floor so that they could be taken.

X—X—X—X—X—X—X

"They're starving down there," said Gelebor.

"Tell me what you saw," said Curtis, pouring himself another drink. He and Gelebor were in Curtis's workroom on the second floor of the Hall of Countenance. It was one of the rooms allowed to have a lockable door because of the confidential nature of his work. Ilya sat at a desk outside the room, studying her lessons while guarding the doorway and moving along anyone lingering too long in the area.

"Guarding children is not the task of two warlords and a spellcaster. Not unless it's reached a point where their younger adults are becoming too feral from hunger. And what I could see of the adults, they were showing signs of starvation. It's evident that those blocked portals are the only ones to that temple. They didn't dig their way in, they came overland and preyed on the local animals and the lone travelers for meat."

"The ghosts in the storm," said Curtis.

"Pardon?"

"It's a book. The author was writing about Skyrim legends of ghosts that appear in the midst of a snowstorm. He thought it was only a local superstition until his travel party was caught in a snowstorm and he hid while the caravan guards fought off these ghosts. I'm sure Urag can find you a copy if you're interested.

"But nevermind that. So they're starving down there because the Archimage sealed their only ways in and out. The teens are going feral and cannibalizing on the weak ones, the parents have to leave their kids with warlords while they look for food or work on digging a way out, all the while hoping their leaders don't get so hungry they start eating their young. That it?"

"It would be easy for Nords to go down there and clear out that Dwarven ruin. It is a rich resource of ores and metals and other things to plunder." Gelebor's tone was unpleasantly flat and emotionless.

"Nah. I got some experiments in mind."

Gelebor's eyes widened and fixated on him. "What are you thinking?" he demanded softly, his tone was of tight control.

"Well, we start feeding them. Start a little exposure therapy. I think that's what they call it. Basically, they hate and fear the outside world. They're paranoid. We feed 'em. Try and get them comfortable with the handouts. Start introducing stuff to show them not everything from the outside world is bad and trying to kill them. Yeah, I know it's not that simple, but that's the basic idea. Gotta start somewhere. I know plenty of people will say they're just mindless animals and that the world's better if we just seal 'em back in and let them starve to death, but that's not something I can live with."

"Yes," Gelebor whispered, his eyes now shifted elsewhere and examining something only he could see. Curtis mentally shrugged, and plunged on to the next idea.

"We'll need to talk with Colette about finding drugs that won't cause a dependency but will work to calm them down. Anti-anxiety drugs. Not stuff to pacify them until their brains dissolve to sludge, but something just enough so that they don't emotionally freak out every time new stuff comes in. 'Progressive desensitization' I think it's called. Something that knocks out the homicidal auto-pilot response. Of course, she might need to test stuff on you first, just so you're aware. And that's if we can convince her to take one more project on.

"And, oh, hey, here's a wild idea: Music. There's a saying, 'Music soothes the savage breast,' or was it, 'Music has charms to soothe the savage beast?' I forget. English Lit was a long while back. And I seen YouTube vids of people doing some weird stuff with cattle and music. But you remember any lullabies, Gelebor? Old tunes that only the Falmer sang? Hymns even? I'm a big believer in music or art or recreational therapy. Active stuff is easier to introduce than passive meditation exercises 'cuz the importance is expressions from the heart. You have to participate to create, you know?"

"I . . . yes." Tears poured down Gelebor's cheeks and his eyes stared blindly elsewhere. "Athring's ghost told me, 'Let our words and our songs be our guide through the Darkness. Break the silence, the soulless noises of machinery. Honor the mantras of Auri-El,'" he whispered.

Curtis sat forward, alarmed and wondering who was this "Athring" and if it was okay to hug the guy. He settled for reaching out with both hands to grasp the other's wrists.

* * *

_Previous story reference: The Shopkeepers Wife #49 Show me the Wayshrine_

_**Guest:**__ Dunno. What did __you__ read? I think I'm writing a "what if you wake up in a world you thought was make-believe?" Toss in ghosts, gods, buncha magic rules that just keep changing (because these gods do play dice), and OOCs who don't follow the game script because they don't know one exists. You want answers, give me specific talking points._


	21. Chapter 21 Krosis And A Kiss

_Songs: Fogarty's Cove (Stan Rogers) * Kiss From A Rose (Seal)_

_A/N: Krosis. No great action, just a data dump for staging and Curtis trying his hand at being a bard. Everybody needs time to pause and reflect._

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators. (And song creators!)

* * *

**Chapter ****21****:**** Krosis And A Kiss**

Flip. Roll. Flip. Roll. Flip. Roll. Flip. Slam. Flip. Slam.

Meditative masochism and thoughtful study of how his new chitin armor felt as he impacted the ground, how it bent and flexed under sudden impact pressure, how it aided or hindered recovery.

Then he picked up his Dwemer greatsword. Flip. Block. Flip. Block. Roll. Recover. Slash. Roll. Recover. Block.

The new Winterhold guards, ex-Stormcloak soldiers, watched. Some look interested, but most just laughed at the Dunmer insect rolling in the dirt between two practice dummies and pretending to fight.

It finally irritated Ilya. She had been chatting with three ex-comrades from her Stormcloak unit in the Reach who had recently joined the Winterhold guards. She unholstered her Dwemer digging bar from the spear holder on her back and challenged one of the more obnoxious mockers to spar with her, her "spear" to his greatsword. Her spear, again, was a Dwemer made digging tool, a rod as tall as she was, one end was flat, with a slight curve, and the other end was a two-tined fork with one tine straight as a spear point and the other sharp tine that dog-legged out then paralleled the first point. In no time at all she'd knocked him on his arse. Then another. And then another. Afterwards, she walked over to Curtis and slapped the butt end of her spear against his back as he was rolling back onto his feet.

"Oh, hey, Ilya. What's up?"

"It's been a long time since I played stick and hoops through the streets of Winterhold. Watching you, I've a mind to try it again with my stick here."

"Oh, I get it. And I'm the hoop." Curtis laughed. "Bring it, little girl."

After a few rounds she snarled, "Stand still, you!"

"Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Gotta try harder if you wanna touch me!" he taunted.

She upped her attack level. He changed from evade and block tactics and started making shin-level sweeps of his sword or leg, and upward sword thrusts. Attacks from below were unfamiliar and broke her momentum by forcing her to jump back. Then she tripped and it was over. Fighting on the ground tactics, undignified scrabbling on the ground like untrained . . . Except that Curtis obviously had training to fight in that situation. He'd easily disarmed her and had her locked in a choke position and was leveraged for advantage and control.

And again. This time she anticipated the low strikes and attempted to block, but her spear was too light in that position and she, again, ended on the ground and in a position where he could easily shatter her arm and shoulder if he'd wanted.

A third round and she used one of the wooden training double-edge battleaxes. That had him scrambling back because low sweeps with that weapon would certainly take limbs. So he became a serpent. Her recovery time from a sweep swing was just enough for him to coil then make a tackling leap. He had her on the ground again.

"Where did you learn to fight? I've never seen dark— Dunmer fight like that!" She demanded.

"Yeah, well, I went to different schools." Curtis rolled to his feet and stretched, idly noting that his chest plate felt loose. Hm, the connection points of a couple of straps had cracked from all the impact rolls and they were cutting their straps.

"A school I'd like to learn," said one of Ilya's buddies. "I'm Alfher. I've heard from Sergeant Beck that you teach."

"Nice to meet you, Alfher. Co-developing," Curtis corrected. "I've got a style I learned with both opponents being unarmored. Armor and weapons throws it off so Beck and I are working the kinks out. But, yeah, I did start some classes some time ago, but then I had to stop because things are getting crazy busy for me to teach on a regular schedule. I make time to practice as I can, but . . ." he shrugged. "I'm always happy to show stuff to interested people if they're here when I am here. Talk to Beck if you're interested; he can show you the basics. He's been the one helping me rework my style to handle Nord weapons and disciplines." He glanced at the sundial. "Excuse me, Alfher, but I have a meeting I need to clean up for."

He went to the new laundry and bathhouse and showed the service ticket he'd prepaid for. "Hey, Lethnal, how's it going?" he said cheerily to the owner, a Dunmer fire mage. The owner paused from recharging the heating runes on a tank of snow melt to greet him back. Relaxing in a steam room would have to wait 'til later, but for now just a quick hot shower while attendants brought out the fresh laundry he'd dropped off earlier for washing.

Today's meeting was a hasty but formal presentation at the College to King Ulfric on the progress of the Breakwater & Harbor project. Curtis was required to attend in case Ulfric had questions about the Skytemple excavation. On the way, he and Ilya joined with Jarl Korir's party, also making their way up to the College. Ulfric's visit had been unexpected, the herald arriving only hours earlier this morning. Korir was pissed, and Curtis was carefully sympathetic.

Turns out, Ulfric had stopped here on impulse. He would be leaving tomorrow for Dawnstar because Jarl Skald's mis-directed obsession with giant killing (the "giant" Empire and it's mandates were gone; let it go, man!) was angering his thanes and other wealthy families who were invested in some business venture run by Steward Sadri (also present) that involved giants and bone dust. Ulfric, as it happened, was the first investor in that operation after circumstances (Skald again) forced Sadri to change his model from privately-held to public. It mollified Korir somewhat as he was also had money in that operation, and he didn't want Skald killing his income from that very profitable business.

The meeting was in the Archimage's quarters. The fake Archimage. Tolfdir had explained it very carefully to Curtis that the real Archimage found it necessary to have someone pose as her in the College. Something about the fake Archimage gave him bone-deep chills though there was nothing in her words, tone of voice, or body language that should've goaded that reaction. Tolfdir assured him, though, that this lady was a good friend of the Archimage.

During lunch break, he wandered over to the magical garden in the center of the chamber. Colette had told him it had been Archimage Aren's garden that he'd built and cultivated, and now that he was gone, she or one of her trusted students tended it because Archimage Antonia wanted it kept alive, but was too busy to do it herself. Alchemy, in the Archimage's opinion was too easily dismissed at the College, which made no sense to her, and so a larger, multi-level magical garden was being built in the Midden. Someone came close to him, and he stared up, not really focusing as his mind had wandered off to the Falmer garden he'd found in Skytemple.

_Krosis_, he thought as he stared at her masked face. The dragonpriest buried at Shearpoint, the mountain area at the southmost part of the Pale between Whiterun and Eastmarch. The shout there was _Zul Mey Gut_, official translation was "Voice Fool Far," though he always heard it as "Fool Me Good" or "Zuul Me Good" as in "There is no Dana; only Zuul" ("Ghostbusters" movie). It was a decoy shout. Like the Game bandits always say, "You start running (thataway) while I hit you in the back!" A great shout for luring enemies away or into kill zones.

He wondered why the Dragonborn wore _Krosis_ as her face. Sure, it gave 20% boost in lock-picking, archery, and alchemy, all great for beginning adventurers, but was there another meaning? _Krosis_ mean "sorrow" in the Dragon tongue. Maybe the Dragonborn felt sadness, as in _"Sorry, it's time for you to die?"_

"Did you wish to say something, Master Curtis?" the Archimage asked, her tone amused.

Curtis shook himself mentally. "Pardon my rudeness, Archimage. I, um, I was, I was wondering if you'd, um, be available later for consultation regarding some, uh, aspects of my project. Projects." He was painfully aware that Tolfdir was nearby and listening in, so was Sadri and Ulfric and Korir.

"Absolutely. I've been reading your reports. Lost treasures deep underground, or underwater as in this case, is fascinating," she replied.

"The Argonians have made great progress these last three months," Korir grudgingly conceded. "They've just found the treasury hall of the old palace." He looked to Ulfric. "We should be able to repay this year's cost and part of next year's with this initial haul." Ulfric nodded, a pleased look on his face.

Sadri drifted closer. He and the Archimage both reached out to clasp hands briefly.

"Things are going well, sister?" he asked.

"Very well and very interesting, dear brother," she replied. "How is my rebellious sister now that she's pregnant?"

Pregnant? Well, well, well. That explained why the Dragonborn felt it necessary for someone to publicly impersonate her at the College. Curtis also figured this was why Baladas had been absent the past month. He was probably making good on his goal of bringing up the Archimage to Telvanni standards and teaching her levitation and teleportation, the "fast travel" ability a Dragonborn needed to keep up with her flying _Dovah_ kin.

"She's getting used to the idea. But she's staying at Goldenglow in The Rift with her cousins. By the time she's ready to give birth, most of the family will have traveled from Cheydinhal, from Colovia and from West Weald to be there. Do come. You would be most welcome."

"We'll see." She shrugged. "But for now, if everyone has finished eating, let us resume the meeting."

They all split up at dinnertime. Ulfric would be dining with Korir at the Jarl's Hall, the Argonians and Dunmer engineers retreated to the docks, mages retreated to their rooms or their labs, Sadri stayed with the Archimage, and Curtis and Colette went to the Frozen Hearth.

It was crowded down there, but Dagur and Haran and their half dozen young servers were managing. Talsgar the Wandering Bard had been in town the past couple of weeks observing the projects and talking to people and composing songs celebrating Winterhold's rebirth, it's entwining of magic and industry and knowledge.

Curtis was performing tonight at the Frozen Hearth and he had his latest guitar created for him by a master bonemold crafter in Windhelm. Kind of like a pressed laminate guitar with gut and silk strings. It sounded good to Curtis, who had been delighted to find that relearning how to play an instrument was surprisingly easy. Seems there was some latent talent in his new body that had been long undeveloped, a good sense of rhythm. He suspected, though, that a drum set would be a better fit, a faster medium to sync mind and body.

Talsgar sat ready to back him up if performance nerves got the better of him, but Curtis had worked out most of his nervousness this morning and the long-ass meeting at the College had worked him into another nervy, tense state that craved creative release. Soloing tonight with his reworked classic (to him) songs wouldn't be a problem.

He started with a sea chanty.

We just lost sight of the Dawnstar light  
Down the bay before us  
And the wind has blown some cold today  
With just a wee touch of snow  
Along the shore from Pilgrim's Trench  
Hard abeam Skytemple  
Tonight we'll let the anchor go  
Down in Winterhold

My Sally's like a ravens wing  
Her hair is like her mother's  
With hands that make quick work of a chore  
And eyes like the top of a stove  
Come suppertime she'll walk the beach  
Wrapped in my old duffle  
With her eyes upon the masthead reach  
Down in Winterhold

She will walk the sandy shore so plain  
Watch the combers roll in  
'Til I come to the Frozen Hearth again  
Down in Winterhold

A couple more sea chanties, then he ended his set with Seal's "Kiss From A Rose."

Ba-da-da, ba-da-da-da-da-da, ba-da-da  
Ba-da-da, ba-da-da-da-da-da, ba-da-da

There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea  
You became the light on the dark side of me  
Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill  
But did you know that when it snows  
My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?

Lady, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grave  
Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah  
And now that your rose is in bloom  
A light hits the gloom on the grave

Ba-da-da, ba-da-da-da-da-da, ba-da-da

There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say  
You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain, lady  
To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny  
Won't you tell me, is that healthy, lady?  
But did you know that when it snows  
My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?

Lady, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grave  
Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah  
Now that your rose is in bloom  
A light hits the gloom on the grave

His voice was nowhere near as smooth, but he thought he hit most of the notes. And, more importantly, Colette seem pleased, if somewhat embarrassed, since his posing and looks made it clear to everyone he was singing to her.

"A fine song, friend," said Talsgar afterwards. "The College is the ruined tower, Winterhold is virtually coming back from the grave, and I assume, since you're Dunmer, you refer, of course, to your people's Lady of the Rose, Azura, whose statue can be seen from many parts in Winterhold. A fine tribute to her."

"Oh, um . . ."

The bard laughed, clapping him on the back, then he grinned and winked at Colette. "I want to make sure I get it right when I share this song throughout Skyrim, a Dunmer's praise to his goddess of dusk and dawn. That is, once I've gotten some mastery with this new instrument," he added, tapping the bag holding Curtis's old guitar, same maker, but a first attempt at making the instrument from Curtis's sketches. It lacked the resonance and artistry of the second making, but Talsgar seemed happy with it. It was, after all, a new configuration, and he was a man who loved challenges when it came to music.

Colette blushed. "If you must," she said snappishly. "I doubt the Nords will appreciate their city being associated in such a way with a Dunmer goddess rather than Talos."

Talsgar shrugged. "I have plenty of songs about Winterhold and our Atmoran founders to counter such petty concerns."

The crowds thinned a couple hours after midnight. Talsgar and three of the local talents (two Nords and one other Dunmer), had put on a good show. Even Ulfric had dropped in to listen and do a little public relations building. Curtis had reluctantly been impressed after today's meeting. This wasn't the blindly prejudiced blowhard from the Game. Maybe he was that before the Dragonborn, but since then he'd softened his stance against non-Nords. For instance, here, in the Frozen Hearth, Ulfric even briefly praised the contributions of the Dunmer and the Argonians to Winterhold's rebirth.

Curtis and Colette had stayed until Dagur finally shooed everyone out so he and his wife and the staff could clean up and rest. Ilya followed at a distance, giving them privacy as they all walked up the bridge to the College.

"Thank you, Curtis," said Colette, squeezing his arm tighter against her body. "You keep saying you sound like a frog when you sing, but you sounded better than Talsgar tonight."

"Thanks, babe, but you need to look into something for your ears," he teased, but very pleased that she liked his singing.

"Curtis," she sighed in a tone of displeasure.

"Sorry, sorry, my dear lady. I know you don't like it when I call you 'babe.'"

"It's just so patronizing. You're a man; you should be able to handle a woman."

"Hm. So, can I call you 'sweetie pie' or 'pumpkin'? And I'll remind you, Colette, where I come from, calling someone a 'babe' has also come to include the meaning of something that's unconditionally close to your heart and a thing of great wonder and beauty that deserves protection. Like any alchemy ingredient — it's all in the mix. Believe me, honey, I think we got great chemistry and you're all the woman I can handle. Hard thorns and all."

She sighed, turned her head to give him a quick kiss on the shoulder, then rested her head against his shoulder all the up the rest of the bridge.

* * *

**GalacticHalfling:** I'm being Pollyanna optimistic. Gelebor has said he saw signs. We'll see if he's as blind as the Betrayed then. And if what I've read that even before the Dwemer disappeared, the Falmer were already in active rebellion/warfare with the Dwemer. Fighting blind against a technologically superior enemy, how insane do you have to be? What kind of psycho trauma would you inflict on the kids ("children" or "little soldiers"?) to toughen them up to continue the fight? How long can that cycle go before there's a break?

**blueEyre**: Thanks.

Related stories:  
* Shopkeeper's Wife # 34: Bones to Grind  
* SW # 64: Rediscovering Family  
* SW #65 : Making Excuses  
* SW # 27-29: Doomsday

I know, it's a pain when stories reference plots from other stories, and it's pretty presumptuous of an author to assume you've read her earlier stories (especially ones now undergoing updates) to recognize the plot points. But 2nd Life is a spin-off from Shopkeeper's Wife (SW #49: Show Me The Wayshrine) and their threads will tangle every once in a while. Do let me know if it gets too muddled.

Interesting YT videos comparing classical wood acoustic guitars to pressed laminates of glue and sawdust to carbon fiber ones. Even found one trying different rock (?) techniques on a plastic ukulele. Who knew one could actually do a decent shred on one?


	22. Chapter 22 Constructs

_A/N: Changing up the inherent abilities of the Dwemer because I found the lore where the 'mind-calling' or group telepathy is attributed to the Psijic Monks. So, if Falmer had television, Dwemer had telecommunication. Audiophiles with a real sound-system obsession._

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****22****:**** Constructs**

With the new CPU online, Gelebor was able to find the right magical key to open the sleeper room door without any problem.

But there was no waking of the sleepers yet. Translations of science and engineering notes and notations went much faster now that Gelebor was assisting Calcelmo. What it came down to was the sleep could only be broken by the Sleepers. Their minds, their souls were elsewhere.

"I don't know if they can come back," said Calcelmo, listlessly restacking his notes. "If I am understanding correctly, this 'ship of the imagination,' as you call it, is largely a construct of the Dwemer minds. Their return beacon was to be their Dwemer compatriots of this facility using the inherent Dwemer distance talking power. What was the word you used? Tele—?"

"Telecommunication. Long-distance speaking and hearing," said Curtis. "Some kind of magical hearing versus the Falmer seeing." Under his breath he sang, "Radio _killed the video star. Radio killed the video star. Steel drums played and broke your heart …"_

Calcelmo nodded. "Yes, we finally did determine that what they had was not the same as the Psijic's 'mind-calling' power that links their minds and magics. Being underground facilitated that ability."

"_Hear the world's heart beating like a big bass drum. Don't you think you ought to know where the beat comes from. It's you, it's the tapping of a million shoes …_"

Calcelmo continued, by now used to Curtis's constant humming and having realized the mer was incapable of thinking without making a lot of noise in the process. "The Falmer used their inherent sight abilities to navigate in the chaotic creatia of Oblivion, but the Eye was their beacon, their lighthouse, relatively speaking, but it's gone." He shook his head. "I would there were better analogies to all this, but I cannot think of any."

"And with one dead crewman, we can also pretty much assume there's a critical failure in the ship's systems," said Curtis. "When power fluxed, he was likely first in line and died before surge protections activated. One dead chief engineer. Of course, I'm just guessing" he added apologetically.

"You've been uncannily accurate so far with your guesses."

"Not a big comfort because everything I'm guessing is leading to a big, fat zero chance of saving them."

Calcelmo patted his shoulder in sympathy then took himself and his notes elsewhere to assimilate with other studies he'd made.

One dead Dwemer, presumably fried by some energy surge that caused the soulstones of his pod to explode to dust. The body had been removed to be studied. The pod, once it was detached from the mechanical power lines, was being disassembled and studied by Calcelmo and Arniel Gane.

Yeah, Arniel lives. The Archimage had helped him in the early stages of his research, but when she was sent to fetch the missing special delivery item from Morrowind and discovered it was the legendary Keening, she refused to give it to him and ended his research, correctly deducing he was trying to do something incredibly stupid, like, reenacting the Nerevarine's actions against the Heart of Lorkhan to find out what happened to the Dwemer.

Curtis knew what the end of that story would have been. Arniel's shade had been his brother's favorite battle slave. It took zero energy points to summon so even a total novice could us him. And as a ghost, Arniel had a good lightning attack, he couldn't be "killed" or banished before his runtime ended, and he couldn't be commandeered by a high-level necromancer enemy and used against you. Tolfdir and Urag had been horrified by that story.

Arniel stayed with the College, though clearly depressed that his research was exposed and canceled. Still, it couldn't be denied that he had a dangerous talent for intuiting Dwemer logic processes. Calcelmo gave him a hard lecture about his carelessness, however, Baladas took him on as a student. Arniel was too useful to just dismiss. If Arniel wanted to continue with his line of dangerous Dwemer research and remain at the College, then he would have to accept a modified apprenticeship under Baladas who would teach him what he had learned about Dwemer magic and technology from the ruins and records in Morrowind, and just how mind-blowing stupid and dangerous Arniel had been to think he could handle the tools of Kagrenac.

The other pods, recharged by the Archimage's basket of black soul gems, glowed strong. Arniel had figured how to reroute the lines of the re-powered, restored giant motherboards in the lower levels below around the damaged pod to the others. If his calculation were correct, the Dwemer engineers on "the other side" were already responding by the changes that could be seen in their individual monitor displays. Colette could not sense any physical changes but Drevis, more attuned to mental interaction with magika, did sense increased responses, though more from the Dwemer than the Falmer.

Curtis ran his hand over one pod. "Agrund Ychonard" according to the name plate, energy physics, first rank. Whatever that means. "_Hello, Darkness, my old friend_ …" he sang, only half paying attention to the words. "_Hear my words that I might teach you. Take my arms that I might reach you …"_ He wondered if there was some subconscious significance that _The Sound of Silence_ was the only song that wanted to be sung whenever he stepped into this room, whenever he got deep into repair work in this place.

Yeah, if he thought about it, he was calling to them. There was a theory that comatose patients may still have some semblance of a sleep and awake cycle, and that during an awake cycle, they could hear, maybe even process or comprehend at some level. It was a mad hope. Yeah, that definition of madness of doing the same thing over and over again whether it worked or not. And so he sang to them. The words would mean nothing to them, but it meant something to him and so, as his old choir director often said, he put his heart and soul into it.

"_And echoes in the well of silence."_

As far as he could tell, there was nothing in this room that was within his ability to repair. No broken or leaking pipes, no wall or floor cracks, nothing. The ambient temperature was cool, no excessive moisture, no heat spikes, not even dust. A real clean room until their intrusion.

So he made his way around to each pod, laying hands, reading their names aloud from the name plates he'd insisted Calcelmo make for each, and crooning his song.

"Curtis."

He looked. Tolfdir and the faux Archimage.

"Oh, this is familiar," said the Pretender, looking around. "But so strange. The energies here are hot, so unlike the cold that wrapped my bed. No blood sacrifice here will end their sleep and wake them."

Curtis did not like the sound of that. Tolfdir closed the door and the Pretender removed her mask and showed as a Nord woman with alabaster skin, aristocratic features, large, dark eyes type. She smiled at him, open lips type.

Dracula's bride type. Those were some long, white, shiny, pointy chompers there.

But she was a close friend of the Archimage. Right. Okay. No surprise that the Dovahkiin, with her ghost-talker husband, had a vampire bestie.

"Curtis, let me introduce you properly to Lady Serana Volkihar," said Tolfdir.

"Lady Volkihar," said Curtis, giving a little head bow.

"Oh, no, Lady Volkihar is my mother. You may call me 'Serana' or 'Lady Serana' in private," she said, smiling. She wandered to the nearest pod and caressed Lesshan Yrevarys's cover. "Lesshan," she read the plate aloud, "2nd Navigator. Falmer." She looked sideways at Curtis. "You were singing to them."

"Yeah. The Dwemer lost radio contact and the Falmer lost their Eye-of-Magnus-lighthouse beacon. I'm trying the 'foghorn in the storm' method. Can't hurt to try. If nothing else, maybe it'll get them to wake up faster just to tell me to shut up."

She laughed at that. "Yes. I've read your strange theories on sleep, deep sleep, and comatose. Drevis and Colette both hate that this research forces them to work together, but have they come up with anything useful to you?"

"Uh, not quite. At least, nothing that I can use. What I know of Illusion is an insult to Drevis. He calls them low-grade, cheap, slight-of-hand tricks. Surprisingly close-minded for a supposed Master of Illusion."

"How so?"

"Well, we once got into a discussion about that story of 'Azura's Box,' the one where the Dwemer tricked Azura and got her mad at them. In that tale, they built a special box and asked her what she saw inside. She looked and pronounced it was a rose. But when the box was opened, it was empty. She got mad at their trickery and the author made some inference that the Dwemer weren't to be trusted who could trick a Daedra Prince. But, you see, the Dwemer weren't lying, not by their reasoning. I believe what they created was a three-dimensional hologram, an illusion of light to create the perfect image of a rose that would only exist inside that enclosed space. They asked Azura to look — visually look — not to touch or to smell or to taste. If it was a trick, it was a trick of light and, yes, of intent then, but she did confirm that a virtually perfect rose existed in the virtual reality of the box. Drevis didn't like my interpretation. He said he wasn't going to argue if the image in a mirror was equally valid as the object the mirror reflected. It was an old student bullcrap reality-vs-perception argument every Illusions student pulled out over drinks. And, to be fair, I can't out-argue with him because I don't know enough to create the machines that are needed to create that type of hologram. I can manage a simple illusion with light and mirrors, but inside an enclosed space and real enough to fool a god? Nope.

"But I'm thinking, I'm thinking this whole setup is just a bigger version of that box. Thinking real sci-fi here. A galaxy in a marble. A whole society in a postal locker. Windows of reality in a card deck sealed in Amber."

Lady Serana and Tolfdir exchange a familiar look. "_And the walls remain._" Yup. He'd lost them, and mentally sighed.

"I'd like to see that light and mirror illusion," said Lady Serana.

"But here's the good news that Tolfdir and I were originally coming to see you to tell you. Savela and Colette have been able to confirm this morning their procurement of three master alchemists. Savela brings in Avrusa Sarethi, who was trained in Morrowind, and Colette is bringing three priests who were her teachers, two are master alchemists, the other is a Master of Restoration, all from Summerset."

So all the way back to Curtis's lab in the Hall of Attainment. He showed them his hologram toy of two parabolic mirrors. Dropped a septim at the bottom and let them study the projected image of a floating coin. "Real basic light manipulation," he said. "The hardest part was making the mirrors. I was surprised at how … primitive mirrors were when I got here. All these master glass smiths, and none of them could turn out quality mirrors. That's only a one-side projection. To get a full 3-D creation that looks real top, bottom, sideways, you need a box setup."

"And so you started a new industry here. Good mirrors, and those special see-through mirrors." Lady Serana poked at the illusory coin. Flipped it out and dropped in a ring. Curtis was startled to see the strange rainbow flares, like solar flares, from the surface of the ring's image.

"That's a ring of enhanced illusion," said Lady Serana. "I wonder …" She shook that ring out and dropped in another ring. This image had a sullen red glow. "Destruction." She looked at him. "Another reflection of reality. This non-magical device seems to work incredibly well as an enchantment detector."

"Another freaking … It shouldn't be able to do that," said Curtis, reluctantly fascinated. "There's some principle at work here that I can't think of. Like, gunpowder doesn't work here, but magic does. Freaking mutant … I'm starting to think if somebody dropped nuclear reactor core from my world here it wouldn't work because it was built on entirely the wrong set of physics. Freaking—"

Tolfdir sighed loudly.

"Okay, okay, nevermind me; I'm just babbling again." He watched her play with the mirror bowl and other magical objects. "Um, you said something about your own sleep?" He ventured to ask.

"Oh, yes. Enchanted sleep since the First Era. My mother sealed me in a protected coffin to keep me away from my father."

Curtis nodded. He'd heard this before. One hell of a custody battle.

"Helsette rescued me. Not intentionally. She was just being herself and sticking her hand in where it shouldn't be and triggered my awakening. She was doing a job for the Dawnguard and was nice enough to let me come fully to my senses instead of being practical and beheading me, especially when she saw the other thing my mother put in my coffin to keep safe."

"An Elder Scroll," Curtis breathed, still awed by that totally ballsy move. "Yeah, I know." They looked at him. "Revyn Sadri told me about your dad — really sorry about that; fear of dying makes people do or try a lot of crazy things — and the Auriel's Bow quest. He thought it important that I know some of those details since Jhunal pulled me back to life to deal with some of the fallout.

"But, um, back to you being asleep. Do you remember anything while you were in that magically induced coma?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "There was nothing, nobody in that place where I was sealed. I have vague memories of reliving parts of my life. Exuberant or terrified. Extremes that reminded me that I was alive. Had once been alive. The magic kept me from feeling the hunger that would've driven me irreparably insane. The times I think I was fully awake were almost as torturous as the ceremony that made me a vampire. Paralyzed, unable to bash my head against the stone to stop the despair and loneliness. Longing for and welcoming the renewal of sleep." She shook her head. "I don't believe my experience has any bearing on what those poor elves are going through. They went willingly and through very different means. I can't even begin to imagine what they are experiencing. I would be amazed and count it a miracle if they were still sane."

She picked up the dragonpriest mask and flipped it face up and stared down into its empty eyes. "It's in the hands of the gods. And since you're the chosen of your god, like Helsette is the chosen of hers, all I can say is follow your instincts no matter how it flies in the face of reason." She lifted the mirror toy. "May I take this with me? I have some experiments I want to try."

"I'd be happy if you did. Don't forget to document. It's science if you document."

"Oh, yes, I know. My mother taught me the same thing. Very important in alchemy."

"You practice alchemy? I don't suppose …"

"Help you? I would, but the Archimage Antonia is known for shouting and Destruction; it's her half-sister who is known keeping her husband's store stocked with alchemy potions and enchanted trinkets when she's not adventuring. In any case, you'd be better off with my mother, but I doubt she'd be welcome here."

Right. No, the Vampire Queen would not be welcome at the College.

X—X—X—X—X—X—X

"Priests of Akatosh," confirmed Colette when Curtis asked her later that evening. "Like many, they chose exile from Summerset when the Thalmor became warped after the Oblivion Crisis by a fanatic group calling themselves 'The Beautiful.' Racial purity, that nonsense. My teachers delayed settling with their kind at Sentinel, choosing instead to come first to Kvatch, my hometown. Kvatch, if you didn't know, was the largest city the Dominion armies did not attempt to raze to the ground simply because the primary Imperial temple to Akatosh is there. The common armies refused to violate sacred ground, and the Thalmor commanders knew better than to make an issue of it.

"Because they were in Kvatch, my teachers escaped the terrible slaughter at Sentinel, the Night of Green Fire in 4E42 when the Thalmor Dominion slaughtered every Altmer refugee there, partly because of how dangerous they were and partly because of the great insult their leaving implied. Many of those refugees were some of the best scholars, artists, philosophers of their generations. There were also many honored veterans of the Thalmor old guard, worn down by the battle to shut the Gates, who had wanted to believe the new Thalmor regime that they and their families would be allowed to live in peace if they accepted exile and did not speak against the new Thalmor Dominion. A lot of people left. Far fewer arrived. They were betrayed and cut down in transit by the new regime's assassins, their names and legacies questioned and discredited to all of Summerset and their accomplishments stolen."

"Stolen valor," said Curtis sadly. "And 'Night of the Long Knives' as only the new regime could do it."

"My teachers were also pursued by Dominion assassins. Oh, the Dominion armies would not invade Kvatch, but that's not to say they didn't send their nightblades to silence the traitor priests who would not accept being dictated to on what they were to preach in Akatosh's name. For a time, the Imperial priests managed to keep their Altmer brothers hidden, and the Altmer priests, unable to practice, took instead to teaching Restoration and Alchemy. I learned all my initial skills from them. But, even so, they were still hunted and eventually, a year before the Great War, sent all the students away for our own safety before going deeper into hiding. And so I came to Winterhold."

"What made you contact them, Colette? Not just for this project I think."

"No," she smiled sadly at him. "If the Sleepers awaken, they'll be sent somewhere that's been hidden for ages. The Snowmer, if Gelebor's any indication, still worship Akatosh, or Auri-El. My teachers are priests trained in ways traditional to the Altmer, another reason they refrained from preaching in an Imperial temple. Aside from not wanting to draw attention to themselves, there are some significant conflicts of basic philosophy between the strictly mer-centric teachings and the ones practiced outside of Summerset. Auri-El was first a Mer god and, by ancient definition, Man was not a creation of the Aedra, not even spawn of the Daedra, but of Lorkhan." She shrugged, a rueful gestore. "Anyway, they might be able to salvage something of the ancient Falmer ceremonies."

"You want to hide any survivors in the Snowmer Vale," said Curtis. He couldn't help the scowl on his face. The whole "Man is but a mutant, errant malformation that shouldn't exist" view of the mer was … But, obviously, Colette didn't see her teachers as such narrow-minded, ignorant, Klu-Klux-Klannish nutzis.

"I haven't told them anything of the Vale. I'm not promising them anything. I merely told them something of your theories. Not enough to give any significant information away if my letters were intercepted or were read by eyes who shouldn't be reading, but enough that, knowing my teachers, they would presume the missing elements enough to be interested."

"So, you know who are coming?"

"I'm not sure which two alchemists, but the Master Restorer would be Salindil Greyeal, the leader."

"Arch-priest?"

"No, not that high up in the church. A low-level priest who tended to the serfs and the country folk, who taught the bucolic gentry's children, and abbot to a half-dozen other brothers to help him run a the hospital for those needing healing or just a place to retreat and meditate for their mental or spiritual health. He lacked political ambition, but he was passionate about philosophy and was often consulted on sensitive matters of theology."

"And he told the new Thalmor leaders to stick it. Got it. I'm surprised his ship didn't mysteriously sink."

"They were smart enough to ship out on a Breton merchanter who was making good money evacuating their countrymen off the islands. Those Breton sailors had some of the best water wizards on board to make sure nothing strange happened. That was because their normal routes were through the southern seas and skimmed near Maormer waters."

"They sound like great bunch to have here. You might want to talk to Olve before they come. If you can get our chief priest of Talos on your side, that should cause our Jarl and his kind to hold their tongues about bringing in more Altmer."

* * *

List of OCs:  
Olve Tera (Talos priest), Salindil Greyeal (master healer, Akatosh priest)

Songs:  
Sound of Silence (Simon & Garfunkel); Video Killed The Radio Star (The Buggles); Hear The World's Heart Beating (Unknown, 1970s)


	23. Chapter 23 (re)Generations

Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.

* * *

**Chapter ****23****:**** (re)Generations**

With the civil war over, more were willing to travel to Winterhold. As the senior College professors had hoped, having The Dragonborn as their Archimage bestowed on the College a respectability they hadn't experienced for decades. This summer trimester's enrollment was the largest yet, 30 new students and, to Tolfdir's delight, three-quarters were Nords.

As Master of Wizards, Tolfdir gave the initial tour and general introduction to the College facilities. For some reason, he asked Curtis to attend this one particular meet-and-greet session.

This was the second of two groups. The first group had been yesterday. This bunch were mostly young adult Nords, a teen Nord with an escort, an Argonian, and a Redguard.

Tolfdir finished his speech of welcome, the founding of the College by Archimage Shalidor, and the dedication of the College to magic with no allegiance to either religion or politics. So far, Tolfdir had neither introduced him to the students or acknowledged his presence at all. He wondered why he'd been asked to attend this orientation. Still, he and Ilya ambled along after the group as Tolfdir led them from the Hall of Elements to the Hall of Attainment

As they crossed the central area, a tiny owl flew down from the head of the statue of Shalidor to the teen's shoulder. It was tiny, grayish-brown thing about the size of a sparrow.

"Pets," said Tolfdir smoothly, "are allowed on a case-by-case basis, but it is generally not encouraged because the potential disruption. And once serious studies are underway, an animal blundering into spellcasting practice can have serious, if not fatal, consequences."

The utterly adorable little thing hacked up the remains of its meal and swiveled its head around to look at everyone with pale, yellow eyes.

"What are you doing with a desert owl?" asked the Redguard novice. "It'll freeze up here."

"No. We had our village wizard make a special ring of warmth for Gaulder. I'm Joric."

"Well met, Joric. I am Hasan."

"There will be time for everyone to get acquainted after the tour," interrupted Tolfdir.

Curtis studied the teen. This kid was on the lean side. White, healthy skin, bone structure held promise of angular, strong features in the near future. Hair was shoulder length and black. Eyes brown. Curtis had heard the way the kid's voice cracked when he spoke, and he observed the way the boy held himself in relation to the older male with him. Kid slouched like he was used to seeing the world from a lower vantage point, or he was really shy. Maybe much younger than he looked. His accent wasn't local, and his name…

Wait, was he that weird kid from Morthal? The one that kept running around with his sister chasing after him and telling you her little brother wasn't mad?

The one who had visions and now had an owl?

Was he the reason Tolfdir asked him to come to this newbie welcome session?

As Curtis mused on the possible connection between a smart-aleck Divine Aedra currently masquerading as Daedric Prince and a kid from a bloodline of strong mystics. He felt something land on his head. The little owl. Well, fuck. The kid smiled at him. He felt someone looking at him and looked to Tolfdir. The Master of Mages' eyebrows were lifted in inquiry. Curtis shrugged. He would need to talk to the kid to be sure. He looked to the kid and pointed to the owl on his head. "Cute little guy. Does he get any bigger?"

"A little, but he's almost finished growing, sera."

"Uh-huh." He walked up to the kid. The boy's father frowned and shifted protectively closer to his son. Curtis couldn't recall ever bothering to learn the name of Jarl Idgrod's steward husband. "Easy there, friend, just talking. And I am one of the researchers here. Name's Curtis Johnson, Dwemer Engineering studies."

"They're a friend, father," said Joric. "They are the ones that built that owl shrine we saw yesterday. I'm suppose to meet them." The kid looked at Curtis and grinned. "You're like our Thane Faro; you're more than what everybody sees. You are also more than who you think you are."

"Um, okay," Curtis said slowly. He looked at the father.

The Nord sighed and said, "Aslfur Blackwing. My son, Joric Ravencrone." He glanced at his son, at the group listening and waiting around them, and then back to Curtis. "Perhaps we can talk after this tour, sera? Before I return to Morthal?"

"Sure thing, sir. My office is on the second floor in the Attainment. I'll be working there the rest of today. Stop in when you're done."

The little owl didn't want to leave his head so it came with him back to his office. Once there, it hopped off his head and into a basket of yarn he hadn't yet knitted into more scarves or mittens or socks. It settled in there and appeared to go to sleep.

"Gaulder, Gaulder," he muttered as he looked through his collection of books and then the general collections that were scattered in the bookcases in the nearby kitchen and common rooms. "Thought so. _Forbidden Legends_." Those three dead warlords. At the end of the Gauldersons' tale someone had notated a reference to a newer publication of poems and songs by Helsette Faro, Bards College of Solitude, which included an updated tale of the Gauldersons.

He searched around until he found that book and skimmed through it. Okay, yeah, it pretty much was what he remembered of that quest line. It also detailed that the weapons of the warlords were on display at Geirmund's Honor Orphanage in Ivarstead and that Gaulder's amulet was kept at Winterhold College, but it didn't have what he'd hoped for, which was more information about Gaulder himself.

"Curtis! There you are."

He stood up. "Colette, sweetie, what's up?"

"My teachers have just arrived. You must come and meet them." She looked so happy and he smiled, happy to see her so happy.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said. He tucked the books in a pocket for later reading. They swung by his office so he could let Ilya know where he was going and that he'd be back soon. Colette took him to the common room nearest her room in the Hall of Countenance. Faralda stood guard outside the room so that the three inside could relax undisturbed. As they approached, Faralda nodded at them and walked away. Colette trilled at the priests in Altmeris. They smiled back and stood up.

The Skyrim Game's use of generic models just failed to do the diverse races justice. Altmer were supposed to be a tall race. Faralda at 6'2" was the tallest in the College. Ancient Nord texts spoke about how their ancestors came to Tamriel and waged war against the elf giants. Game models did not reflect that. Each of these three mer wouldn't look out of place on a basketball team. 6'5" was the shortest of the three. The other two were easily 7' plus an inch or two. Diminutive Colette was a half-grown child next to them.

"Brothers, this is Curtis Johnson. Curtis, Aldarch Salindil Greyeal—"

"'Brother,'" corrected that one gently. "I am no longer in Summerset and that title is of little use to me." He was one of the 7' ones, gold-brown hair streaked with silver, neatly trimmed beard, silver-gray eyes. Skinny compared to the other two. His skin had the delicate look of age. Colette had told him he was 500 at least.

He had a hard time imagining that number. Looking up into those eyes, he was overtaken by sudden melancholy. He still thought in terms of human ages where 30 years was considered a generation, so 500 years was, what, 16 to 17 generations of Man. He still hadn't gotten used to the notion that his new Dunmer body, that Slitter, was only 83, and he would probably live 2- to 300, or 6 to 10 human generations, without magic assist, barring accidents, sickness, or murder. When he tried to think in mer terms, almost… just almost he could see their point of view that their world was being overrun by short-lived, undisciplined, barely coherent monkeys.

Deadly, innovative little monkeys who had caught up, overtaken, and shat on the ancient mer civilizations.

He would bet Brother Salindil's childhood horror stories from his parents were of Tiber Septim loosing the monster that was the Numidium upon the Isles, forcing them to surrender and bow to the Cyrodiil Empire. He'd have been born a century after that event. For the Altmer, say a generation for them was maybe 150 years, the world had changed that fast.

In about 30 or so mer generations, from the start of the "Ages of Man" to now, the Falmer, the Ayleids, and the Dwemer had vanished. Were they next? And so it was no wonder the Altmer grandchildren were lashing back in their fear and insecurity with fascism.

He shook off that sudden and depressing racking of numbers and broke eye contact with the old priest.

"Brother Salindil," said Colette, unaware of Curtis's odd manner, "Is a Master of Restoration."

She gestured to the other 7-footer, one almost as pale and white as Gelebor, the Snowmer. "This is Brother Meren, Master of Alchemy, specializing in poisons. and this," she gestured to the shortest of the group, "is Brother Tellion, Master of Alchemy—"

"Adept only," corrected Brother Tellion. "Brother Taurliongrim, a Master, was originally to come, but Salindil decided at the last moment that I should come."

"I know another healer was requested," interposed Brother Salindil. "But from what I read in your letters, Colette, of Master Curtis's predilections, I believed this the perfect opportunity for Brother Tellion to advance his skills and find fulfillment of his interests.

"Brother Tellion," he said, turning to Curtis, "is fascinated by alchemy processes not related to the practice of medicine. Can a glue be made stronger, can a metal be annealed to another if it is a dust and affixed by lightning instead of fire, what substances make this patch of soil more fertile than another, and what material can be added to compensate?" he shrugged.

Brother Tellion didn't like the look on Curtis's face and he sidled away, murmuring something in Altmeris.

"I am sure he is not a Daedroth," said Salindil, amused. "And manners," he chided. "Speak Common."

"Forgive me, brother, Master Curtis," Tellion murmured, looking down.

"Nonmedical alchemy? An industrial chemist?" Curtis couldn't help grinning, but he tried not to sound so hungry. "Fantastic! Brother, have I got projects for you! I've been needing someone like you for a heck of a long time."

Ice-melt blue eyes blinked uncertainly in the face of such enthusiasm. "Er, I'm glad? I wasn't sure if my skills would be useful here, but Brother Salindil—"

"Hit it right on the nose," pronounced Curtis, firmly. "Tell me, have you ever taught others before?"

"No."

"Willing to give it a go?"

"Curtis," said Colette firmly, "this can wait. The brothers have traveled a long way and I should show them to their rooms so they can get some rest. After that, we can begin explanations of your various projects and annoying particulars."

"'Annoying particulars?'" he repeated, amused.

"Yes. Thalmor spies, various other spies, Nord prejudices, J'zargo…"

"Oh, hey, ease off my boy, J'zargo!" he laughed. "Every big works project needs an explosives expert."

She rolled her eyes and waved him off. "Please go now, Curtis. My teachers deserve a full night of rest and tomorrow I will give them a tour of the city, let them see for themselves what they think they're getting into before you drag them into the maelstrom."

"You have week," he said. "I got a lead on machine parts in Raldbathar in the Pale so I'm putting a team together and, hopefully, we'll be leaving sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, if you get a chance, take a look at one of the new students. A kid by the name of Joric of Morthal. He's got a pet owl. He and his mother, the Jarl of Morthal, are reputed to be mystics. Tell me what you think of him."

"A pet owl you say? Hm." said Colette her expression showing that she also thought the owl suspicious. "I'll make sure he's introduced to Olve then. And Master Salindil here should also have a word with him. Now shoo!"

He blew her an air kiss and returned to his office. Aslfur Blackwing, Joric, and Tolfdir were conversing with Ilya around her desk. "Hello, sera. Just came for Gaulder and then I'll be gone," said Joric brightly. Curtis let them into the room and Joric fetched his sleeping owl out of the yarn basket then went to his room downstairs.

"Anything to drink, gentlemen?" he offered. "I got some beer, a bit on the hoppy side, but drinkable, or brandy?"

"Beer will be fine," said Aslfur. Tolfdir declined drinks. Aslfur wandered the room, studying the charts Curtis had taped up. He sipped his brandy and waited for the man to settle with his thoughts. Tolfdir settled himself against a wall, placing himself as an observer only.

"The owl shrine, the Jhunal shrine, rumor is you're reviving a cult of an ancient Atmoran god," said Aslfur.

"I owe him my life. I built the shrine as a way to say 'thank you,' but I'm not its priest. Besides, as far as starting a cult, I don't get the sense that Jhunal's into that sort of thing. He seems to want people to eventually think for themselves. That's pretty contradictory for a large, long-term organized religion."

"Then who is the priest?"

"Well, I was rather hoping your son is. The little owl being the clue."

"The owl," Aslfur said heavily. He sat down and scowled into his beer. "The owl is his familiar. Likely the spirit of his damn ancestor Gaulder still clinging to the soul given to my son, if Sadri is to be believed. Do you know the legend of Gaulder?"

"Got the books right here," said Curtis, tapping the two volumes on his desk.

"Aye. The youngest son, Mikrul, putting his damn sword into any wench he could bed when he was warring in the lands. The Ravencrones came from a surviving line. Gaulder's powers didn't show in his sons, but they did in the descendants. It's strong in my wife, my daughter had touches when she was younger, but she seems to have outgrown it or gave her portion to her brother because he's got twice the power of his mother."

"Yeah, but 5000 years? Gotta be other contributing factors. Well over a hundred generations. That's an entire country of descendants."

"I know," groused Aslfur. "My wife and I have talked about that, the chances, why should the curse of power follow her line through the ages. Why is it now Gaulder chooses to be reborn?"

Reborn? What the hell? "You sure about the reborn thing?" he asked.

"How else does my son have memories of times and places he's never been to, never read about?" Aslfur retorted. He leaned forward and grabbed the brandy bottle to refill his cup with. "And a wife! Gaulder was married to a Falmer. He says one of his elf wife's grandmothers is here."

Curtis nearly fell out of his chair. Now fate was really fuckin' with him. Gaulder's kin was one of the sleeping Falmer?

"Figures," he muttered. "So, um, you mentioned 'Sadri,' that Sadura Revyn Sadri? Mind if I ask what his role in this is?"

And so he got the story of how Thane Helsette Faro strongly urged that Joric sent to the College or to her husband for training. But this was before the peace accord and they felt their son was too young and in too much potential danger to be sent into hostile Stormcloak territory. Sadri eventually started visiting while he was about on business trips under his own cover as a merchant, or as the Steward of Windhelm. He would counsel Joric. Then he arranged for the Telvanni wizards to transfer part of Joric's burden of power to his mother to give him a chance to do some growing without his mind being overburdened with visions he was too young to handle.

But their son's growing power was breaking his mother down. She had never had training and was holding her own by sheer force of will. They'd sent for Sadri when power was starting to go rogue and inflicting nightmares. Sadri had worked the peculiar ancestral magic that the Telvanni had said was only practiced by the Velothi shamans. An ancient form of blood and bone magic, dangerous and unpredictable because it relied on the intelligent participation and goodwill of the dead.

He then told them ancient Archimage Gaulder's soul had been reborn in their son, and to sever the link to Gaulder's spirit so that Joric could go forward with his life, they would have to visit Gaulder's tomb, which they did, and which Joric ordered permanently sealed afterwards. And outside the tomb, Joric picked up his owl familiar, which he named Gaulder so that Gaulder's spirit, bound so long to his mortal remains, would experience physical life again before finally flying free and dissipating into the winds of creation when the owl eventually died.

Aslfur, at this point, was clearly reciting something he didn't quite understand or believe in, but it was the simplest explanation that had been given to him.

Curtis, however, was uncomfortably contemplating Slitter's continued existence. He'd at first believed the soul of that mer was gone and he, Curtis, was in its place. A simple swap out. However, Slitter's spirit, born with his body, lingered. It was the necessary, animating force that tied Curtis to this body.

But memories, thought process, and patterns are very much physical and chemical reactions in an organic computer. It bothered him because he knew he shouldn't be anything like he was now because he'd lost the body those memories were created and stored in. Like that little mental breakdown early on when Urag asked him to write his own name and he couldn't remember how to do it. The physical data banks had been destroyed, so how was he able to remember? To feel and react? This contradicted all logic.

He couldn't fathom it. And he wasn't so sure anymore that Slitter's soul was gone. He was a constant phantom in the background of his dreams. He didn't talk much; it wasn't his nature. And the databanks of Slitter's memories were mostly unavailable. In the early weeks of existence, there had been "settling" issues — physical habits that weren't "his," bouts of anger, rage, resentment, or fear that were triggered at unexpected times. Mental double-speak. What was the old definition of crazy? Like, nothing wrong with talking aloud, it's when someone answers back that you have to worry?

—_Good one. I agree.—_

Why had Joric addressed him in the plural form?

He must have gone too quiet because he became aware of Tolfdir gently reassuring the worried father that they would keep a close eye on Joric. The Archimage had made them quite aware sometime ago that Joric was exceptionally gifted as a Mystic and, although the College did not have a school for Mysticism, they had access to various practitioners of that art, Revyn Sadri included, so he and the Jarl of Morthal need not fear for their son.

The two men eventually left and he could now concentrate on preparing for the upcoming trip to Raldbathar. He was aiming for the "Deep Market" section of the ruins. In his own vanilla game playthrough, this was just another points grinder dungeon.

His brother, however, who tried every faction and constantly upgraded his game with official and unofficial mods, had done the Dark Brotherhood quest line to assassinate someone hiding down there, and had to delve there again to get a puzzle piece to the Aetherium Forge quest as part of the Dawnguard mod.

The only reason he knew of the mod was because his brother wanted him to see what a Dwemer forge looked like. Professional opinion, y'know. Right. Less than 10 feet from an up-welling of lava. He figured the Dwemer had to have done a lot of their metalwork by vacuum or explosive forge welding to combine metals that didn't come apart in the lava. And some kind of magic, invisible wall of containment to keep the entire chamber from being a giant oven that could bake a dragon, also to keep a pocket of breathable air free of the toxic, superheated gases bubbling up from the lava pool.

For this trip, Ilya, of course, was coming, and J'zargo and Arniel. So was Gelebor and Ralis. Especially Ralis who had been through that dungeon run with the Dragonborn. Sergeant Beck, unfortunately, couldn't come as he'd been promoted to Armsmaster of the Winterhold Guards and he was too busy with new recruits, so Ilya tapped three of her buddies from her old Stormcloak unit in the Reach — Alfher Sorenson, Melvin Cooper, and Tyra Weber. He knew the three from the judo classes he infrequently taught. They'd all passed the basic stuff Beck taught and they were willing to put up with his erratic classes for advance lessons. Ilya and Beck recommended those three for the secret Skytemple and the Sightless Pit projects. The raid was a test for them, not the least of which was their ability to work with elves and wizards and take orders from them, and their reaction to the Falmer.

So, geared up, maps distributed, meals packed, they rode down to Raldbathar. The hired wagons dropped them off and trotted away.

Ralis had said the Dragonborn had closed and re-locked the stairway between the Deep Market and Blackreach, and the stairs could only be unlocked at the Deep Market side. The College had possession of one of two known attunement spheres, the Dragonborn had the other one.

Oh, and the exit stations one comes across unexpectedly in Skyrim's wilderness? You can't stick a long pole in to shove up and open the gate levers. He had examined the one at Alftand and discovered those were timed locks. When used as an exit, the lift will stay open and operational for about a day. After that, the station resets, the gates close, and the lever drops and locks in place until released again by a lift coming from below. To get back down to Blackreach, or whatever the Dwemer actually called that place, you had to go to one of the trade cities. Or, presumably, wait around the station until someone else came up, then take the lift down and argue with the gate guards if you weren't Dwemer. Of course, nowadays, the only thing coming up were Falmer raid parties looking for food and slaves. Same thing in their vestigial, fleshed-over eyes.

And Blackreach, like the rest of Skyrim, was helluva lot bigger in life than in game. So, taking the high road to Raldbathar was vastly quicker and safer than taking the low road. And there were taverns on the high road.

* * *

List of OCs:  
Hasan (collage initiate) «» Olve (priest of Talos) «» Salindil, Meren, Tellion (priests of Auriel) «» Alfher Sorenson, Melvin Cooper, Tyra Weber (Winterhold guards)

Related stories:  
Shopkeeper's Wife #71 Forbidden Legend

**XXxxxadisxxxXX** : _Thank you for taking the time to review._  
«»_ Plot. In other words: Find a plot and stay on it! Yes?_  
«»_ Grammar/spelling Mediocrity. Regretfully, this is as good as it gets. I can write or I can rage-quit because I just can't quite grasp the finer points of the mechanics anymore. I can't diagram a sentence to save my life. 10 years of strict verbatim transcription with punctuation at transcriptionist's discretion; it's warped my perception of what is grammatically correct versus "normal" and left me with a high pain threshold and partial blindness when it comes to garbled English. I wasn't paid to make pretty or censor or edit their words for polite company, just stream the sewage straight from ear to paper as fast as possible with no proofing 'cuz I'm paid by the wordcount. As for punctuation, when in doubt, put a period on it. As a result, stuff stuck. Stupid talk people do. Got a lotta [sic] language. That's my excuse.  
_«»"…Keep track of without reading it in it's entirety." _Yeah. Sorry. I never could shop a direct in/out path at a hardware, hobby, or crafts store._  
_Food Channel's Chopped_: "too many elements/conflicting elements," "could use better editing," "needs a sauce to bring it all together,"


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